Acts of Anger
by Sherman and Company
Summary: "Those in glass houses shouldn't throw stones, you know." He blinked at her, then scowled. "You are hilarious." LOKI/OC fanfic- Under construction.
1. Incident

******Incident**

___Cold hands were wrapped around her throat._

___His face was twisted with rage._

___He snarled as he backed her to the wall, lifting her from her feet with the force of his movement._

___Palms pressed in to the slim column of her throat, he could feel her breath- or try to, at least. Her throat throbbed in the struggle to inhale, simultaneously, involuntarily attempting to swallow, the spasms of tendons as she resisted the blackness that must have then begun to close in on her._

___he world seemed unsteady, as if he were the one suffocating, and though something in the corner of his heart protested., he didn't slacken his grip._

___She gave another weak hit, hand only loosely curled, batting harmlessly against his chest- losing the fight for air, her remaining hand's grip slackening the longer her held her._

___He didn't know if he was killing her (he didn't know if he could, if it were even possible, but he supposed they were going to find out)._

___Wetness hit the back of his hands, sliding hotly over the ghostly white of his raised tendons._

___He blinked, spastic glare locking on her eyes._

___They were the same sharp shade they had always been- a cloudy hue that grew cloudier, less focused by the minute._

___Loki shook off the haunting tone of her gaze and pressed harder, hard enough to still the pulse of her blood, hard enough to leave bruises, hard enough to..._

___He blinked as she hit the ground gagging- tears rolling down her cheeks, hitched breathes rattling her entire frame. It was serreal, seeing her like that- the strongest woman he knew, crying on her hands and knees._

___It made him dizzy, how quickly she had become the most colorful thing in his world._

___He turned away and the world tilted again, more severely this time, and his gut wrenched with nausea. Something like sickness roiled in his abdomen, and he braced himself against the wall. The concrete was cool against his forehead, and he regained enough equilibrium to speak._

___"Tell me," he demanded, voice unsteady._

___She didn't, and he turned to find her still on her knees- her hands cupped over her mouth, shaking, spotted with scarlet._

___A second passed, and the universe paused. A thousand years of this, of lashing out and being angry and _hating___, just so much_pointless ___hatred, hit him squarely in the chest, and he fell to his knees beside her._

___"Tell me the truth," he elaborated quietly, sounding like a child that thought he was in trouble._

___The tone tasted like copper and salt on his lips, and he cleared his throat as she hiccupped a laugh and turned her eyes on him._

___"The _truth___? That I'm very sorry and that if I could go back I would do everything differently-"_

___"Yes," he snapped, running a hand through his newly shortend hair._

___"-No!" She snapped back, ancient irony coloring her voice. "That would be a lie and you know it- we both know it- so stop. Asking. For the truth!"_


	2. One year before incident

**One year before incident:**

**Location: Earth, USA: Ashland, Louisiana: Undisclosed S.H.I.E.L.D base of operations, observation room adjoined to interrogation room 236.**

**Subject(s) Involved: Agents Maria Hill, Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton, Philip Coulson, consultant Anthony Stark and an unidentified suspect**

In her entire life, Agent Hill had never seen one person be so perfectly still.

The woman on the other side of the glass was so thoroughly unmoving, though, she'd more than once been tempted to check for breathing, or a pulse.

Name unknown, taken into custody more than two days before, the woman had shown no form of awareness that she was even _being_ interrogated- she had neither spoken nor acknowledged that she was being spoken _to_- and seemed entirely content to remain that way for however long she deemed necessary.

Her face showed no emotion, set into a callous, unconcerned mask that had not wavered in the slightest since before she'd been arrested.

They had tried everything- sign language, numerous translators, even Morse Code.

None of it had any visible effect.

Her mouth remained clamped shut in a hard line, as if her muscles were frozen.

It was uncanny, unnerving, and highly- _extremely_- disturbing.

Agent after agent had begged, bribed and threatened the woman for hours, for days on end, and she had never in the slightest way acknowledged them.

It was, without question, the eeriest thing she'd ever seen- made worse by the glasses the woman wore: large, close-fitting and mirrored, they augmented her stony façade by hiding her eyes and a large portion of her face.

Maria held back a shiver and tried to focus on what was going on.

The woman was then being questioned by Barton, who didn't seem to be having any more luck than the previous thirteen agents.

He was being patient with her- trying to play the good cop.

"We just want to know who you're getting your information from. Well, and where they're getting their information from, or course."

She sat.

He frowned.

"Honestly, miss- it'd be better if you just told us now, before anyone gets into trouble."

When she continued doing nothing, he snapped his fingers in her face.

"Hello? Anyone home?" He paused, then, suddenly, reached out to snatch the aviators off her face.

She responded by pushing her chair back and away from him, and he grinned triumphantly at the action before continuing.

"Preferably soon- we don't have all day to sit around playing charades."

She raised an eyebrow- the first movement she'd made since she was brought in- as if to say, _'I do.'_

An hour later, he gave up, and it was Coulson's turn.

"You are a very difficult woman." He began, pouring himself a cup of coffee from a cart in the corner.

The agent added sugar.

Then cream.

Then sat down across from her, stirring it loudly and staring right back at her.

A minute passed.

"In the last six months, you've made six calls, with six numbers you shouldn't have, to six people you shouldn't know about- to talk about something of which you should not be aware."

A beat.

"You can see how that's a problem for us, right?"

He might as well have been talking to the world's most life-like brick.

"As I see it," he continued, taking his spoon out and wiping it down before interlacing is fingers, resting his chin on them. "You can either tell me where you got your information now, and go home, or you can keep up this cold shoulder, and talk to several more agents just as irritating as me, before eventually cracking for one of them and being charged as an accomplice. Now be honest- do you want that?"

He leaned back, sipping at his drink and waiting for her.

After maybe twenty minutes, he sighed.

"You can either deal with me right now or my boss in a while. Trust me; _you do not want to deal with my boss."_

Three hours later they paused their efforts to regroup and sat, spying on the seemingly mute captive from behind a window of one way glass, scratching their heads and brainstorming.

"She's stubborn." Maria sighed, grimicing at her and planting one fist firmly on her hip.

"She's smart. The calls were made from disposable cells, which were then destroyed. There were no witnesses- all we have in the way of physical evidence is voice recognition-" Natasha's eyes darted to Tony, "-and if she doesn't talk, we don't even have that."

"What about the motels the calls were traced to?" Maria tried.

"Paid in cash- ditto the cell phones themselves."

"Someone must have seen her getting the rooms. What about the clerks?"

"Good angle, but no dice. One was ninety-three and blind as a bat, the other two were fall-down drunks. They'd get laughed off the stand if we tried to put them there."

"How do you know she didn't do all this herself?" Natasha demanded, turning to Coulson and raising an eyebrow.

He shook his head.

"We finally found her- twenty eight, English immigrant, no technical school in this country or that one. Other than a brief stint at a community art program, she has no secondary schooling at all. Whoever pulled this off must have hacked our security, and she doesn't have the skill set to do it."

"Appearances can be deceiving." Stark interrupted from his place in the corner, rubbing his eyes sleepily. "And she's smart enough to keep her mouth shut. In my experience, that's a rather valuable skill."

"You'd know," muttered Barton.

"Don't make me separate you," Maria snapped tiredly, rubbing small circles into her temples and closing her eyes for a moment. "Do we call the Director?"

"We might not have that option," Coulson informed her. "He's investigating her previous residence in Manchester, and we can only hold her for 74 hours-"

"We've only been here for 21!" Natasha objected.

"We aren't the first agents to have questioned her." Maria replied, glaring into the room set before her. "And we don't have much to hold her on."

"She was in the middle of calling me when she got caught!" Clint snapped.

"Remind me where you were?" Tony raised an eyebrow.

"That's classified," Natasha answered for him, shooting the man a withering look.

The billionaire rolled his eyes and reclined, hands folded behind his head.

"Your right. I can see that holding up in court."

Clint scowled, taking a step towerd Tony before Coulson spoken up.

"Stark is right."

"And behold, the sky opened up, and the four horsemen of the Apocolipse sprang forth-"

"Shut up. The point is, we have no evidence- all things considered, it might not even be her."

"In almost two whole days, she hasn't said a word. She hasn't asked for lunch, a pillow, or to go to the bathroom. She hasn't moved and inch since she sat down. What part of that _doesn't_ make her look like she'd hiding somthing?"

Coulson shot the archer a pained look.

"Of course she's hiding somthing. But theres a very good chance it's unrelated, and as Agent hill said, in the way of physical evidence, we have next to nothing on her."

"Why are we so sure she's the villian here?" Tony interjected harshly. "Thus far, all she and her boss have done is help keep a crazed demigod on lockdown. I'm not seeing this as a bad thing."

"Loki pissed off a lot of people in the battle of New York," Maria explained impatiently. "They aren't going to be satisfied with keeping him 'locked up' for long, and our deal with Asguard states we cannot willfully put him in harm's way."

"I've mentioned that that's a stupid deal, haven't I?"

"You have," Phil confirmed with mild agitation. "And I assure you, nothing has changed since the last time you mentioned it. Now, if we could get back to the task at hand: _how do we get her to talk?_"

No one spoke up for a moment- probably because no one had any clue.

"Search me," Clint admitted after a while. "I don't know about you people, but I offered her everything from full immunity to the state of New Jersey."

"Maybe you just aren't offering her what she wants," Tony suggested in a 'duh' voice.

"Well she isn't getting Brooklyn," Clint scowled. "Steve has dibs."

Natasha huffed and rolled her eyes at their antics, before turning her gaze back on the subject of their frustration and studying her. Phil had already checked to see if she'd lost anyone in the invasion, and had received a resounding 'no'. No cousins or friends or lovers- as far as they could tell, she'd never even been to New York, before they'd dragged her there for questioning.

Dressed plainly, in jeans and a leather jacket- off brand, and without any valuable embellishments- her class could be estimated middle-to-low.

_Not rich,_ the spy decided._ And probably not doing it for the money, if there is any_.

"Loki," Natasha said coolly.

"What about him?" Clint demanded.

Natasha turned back to face Phil, arms crossed, eyebrow raised.

"Every time he's almost escaped since he was sent back here, she's warned us," she explained. "She wants Loki."


	3. Eleven months, 29 days before incident

**Eleven months, twenty-nine days before incident:**

**Location: Earth, USA: Ashland, Louisiana: Undisclosed S.H.I.E.L.D base of operations, east wing, EXIT.**

**Subject(s) Involved: Consultant: Anthony Stark, Renard**

"I have an offer for you."

She paused in the doorway, half out already- and while she didn't turn to face him, she didn't keep walking either, so he crossed his fingers and figured he was in the clear.

"Right. Excellent. Okay so, you've been here for over a day and a half, and you've said absolutely nothing-"

The unnamed woman snorted, and Tony backtracked as she twisted to give him a side-long glance.

"-which is hardcore, don't get me wrong, but I can only think of two- wait, sorry, three reasons for it: either your mute, you don't know anything but you're paranoid and can't afford a lawyer, or you know everything, and you can't be begged bribed or threatened to speak a word of it for whatever reasons you have."

She stepped out from the doorway and turned to faced him fully, leaning languidly on the frame and cocking an eyebrow as if to say 'so what if I do?'.

Tony swallowed involuntarily; the woman was Amazonian- muscular, mullato, and as tall as most men (six foot at the minimum, she could actually glare _down_ at him). Chanelling The Little Engine that could, he continued despite the intimidation.

"I'm willing to bet on the last part, so here goes: I don't care how you did it."

Tony paused to let that sink in, and hoped she was listening.

"I honestly _could not care less_. Whether you hacked my server or you've got someone on the inside makes no difference to me."

Her gaze turned from menacing to withering in seconds, and he back tracked once again.

"Okay, so that's a lie- I'm going to be pissed if you did manage to hack me, but the point stands: I like you." Stoic silence sounded like stoic silence to Tony Stark, so he didn't read into her continued lack of response, but babbled on. "Or rather what you've done, regardless of how you did it. Loki, evil lord of all things dark and dysfunctional, is still in his fish bowl because of you and whatever wink-wink-nudge-nudge Intel you have. I, unlike certain ninja assassins, appreciate that fact."

He couldn't be sure, but he thought he saw something flash beneath the mirror of her shades- something in equal parts dangerous and curious.

"And speaking of facts," Tony stepped forward and leaned on the opposite side of the doorway. "Three facts have come to my attention- first, you have been bribed to the pearly gates and back, and the only thing you've shown _any active interest in_ is keeping the afore mentioned dark lord under wraps. Second- you've made a call to one of the Avengers- me, then Banner, then Steve, Thor, Natasha, Clint- every time Loki has almost escaped. One of the Avengers- not _SHIELD_, even though their guards are the ones running the prison in my basement."

Her lips were pursed, eyes narrowed in skeptiscism behind her glasses.

"Also, just after you made each one of those calls, you soaked the phones in salt water- lovely tactic, by the way; killer on circuit boards- then broke them up and scattered the pieces. In preparation for these calls, you sought out places of residence completely under the radar, and from which you could never be tracked. And in doing this, you managed to hide from the Strategic Homeland Intelligence blah blah blah for _over half a year._ Which is- well- really, really impressive, to be frank."

"I, personally, take four thingsfrom this-"

_Get to the freaking point_, she groused mentally, hand tightening on the door's handle.

"-A) you're smart, B) you don't trust SHEILD, C) you're hell bent on keeping Loki in a cage, and D) _no one_ is going to stop you from doing just that. Those are things we have in common. So my offer- come to the tower."

She blinked.

"Guard Loki yourself, in person, instead of just calling up the idiots who already do every time something goes haywire and they fail to notice."

She blinked again. It had been a long time since she hadn't seen something coming, and this came as a genuine shock.

"You…would… have to tell me your source. That's not something I'm comfortable not knowing, if it can be helped. But it pays ten bucks an hour and you'd get to live in New Yor-"

"My source is me."

It was Tony's turn to blink.

Her voice was a soft, lilting mix of both a British accent and the unmistakable, twanged slur of a Louisiana woman. Undiluted by the static and background noise of a cheap cellular, it was borderline melodic.

A minute passed, during which Tony snapped back to reality.

"You don't have the tech to hack my systems. How exactly d-"

"I didn't hack you. And I don't have anyone on the inside, if that was your next guess."

"Then how-"

"Will you tell Fury?"

Tony balked.

"How do you even know about Fury?"

"I know a lot of things, that's the least of them. But if I tell you, are you going to follow through with that offer, or are you going to go running to Coulson, telling him you got me to talk?"

_That was the general idea, _he thought, scratching the back of his head and wondering if he should be tweaking that plan right about now.

"I was serious about the job, but I can't just not tell the director-"

"I'm not asking you to lie. I'm asking for you to listen to _me, _and_ then_ talk to Fury. I don't fancy jail time- I can talk my way out of anything, and disappear even faster, if I need to. But if this is just one more attempt to get damning evidence or whatever, you aren't getting anything from me. Just a few more anonymous calls, a whole lot of questions and no answers. So pick your poison and do it now."

It took him another minute to collect himself.

"It depends." She scowled, turning away from him and pushing the door open, harder than necessary. Tony grabbed for her arm, which she quickly twisted out of his grip and balled into a threatening fist. He raised his hands in surrender, stepping back.

"I'm not saying no- I'm saying if your methods are disagreeable, then yes, I will bring it to him. That doesn't mean I won't listen."

Her scowl melted into a mere frown, and she lowered her raised fists.

"Fair enough." That time, _she_ grabbed _his_ arm and, without preamble, pulled him outside with her.

The sun was unusually bright, and Tony floundered for a minute, having to squint to see after the flouresent, track lit building he had just left. His companion didn't start talking right away, instead walking to the stairs and bracing herslef, facing away for him, on the stone banister. He didn't know if she was stalling or collecting herself, but she began again after some time.

"Like I said," she drawled in a low, nervous voice. "My source is me- and my name, thanks so much for asking, is Renard."

"Renard what?"

She analized him from over her shoulder, and the intensity of her exspression- even obscured by her choice of eyeware- was chilling. Tony bit the inside of his cheek and fought to keep from shivering as she went on.

"Just Renard, for now. And I haven't got any sort of- spy, or computer virus or anything- I just... saw Loki get out a few times."

Tony frowned at her choice of words. If she had hacked him, contrary to her testimony- "You mean you saw him _almost_ get out."

Renard shook her head and turned back, staring straight ahead.

"I didn't say 'almost' because i didn't see him 'almost' escape."

"Then _what the hell are you talking about_?" Tony demanded harshly- he was loosing both his patience and his faith that the woman actually knew what she was talking about.

_Think about it_, he chastised himself- some _random woman diles some random wrong number. How impossible is that? This woman could be a complete looney_.

"Unles you've got some psychic ability you feel the need to reveal, I don't understand what you're trying to…"

Her gaze, as it were, snapped back from the horizon.

The sour twist of her mouth was his only warning, as she raised her eyebrows at him and whipped off her glasses.

"...Oh."


	4. Ten months, 12 days before incident

**Ten months, three days before incident:**

**Location: Earth, USA: Midtown, Manhattan: New York City: Stark Tower, floor zero.**

**Subject(s) involved: Anthony Stark, Clint Barton, Renard, Loki.**

Conversation was impossible.

In the interrogation room, he'd though it was plain and simple resilience that kept the woman's jaw locked, but he realized- after being alone with her for aproximatly twelve seconds- that awkward silence was her preferred atmosphere. She spoke only when spoken to, and answered questions with either sarcastic monosyllables, or noncommittal gestures and grunts. Her gaze, although still obscured by her aviators, remained impossibly unblinking, locked eternally on whatever happened to be in front of her.

Clint shifted uncomfortably, trying not to breathe too loudly in her presence, and noticed Tony doing the same. They exchanged nervous glances as the elevator doors opened, and Renard stepped out.

She cast a calculating eye to her surroundings and was actually impressed.

"A maze?"

"A maze." Tony confirmed, relaxing at the obvious approval in her tone.

She didn't voice her opinion, but nodded at him and continued into the concrete depths of the last floor of Stark's tower.

"You don't know the way!" Clint warned her, raising his voice involuntarily.

She turned back, the dim light of the elevator illuminating her grim features.

"Yes I do." She said quietly, not elaborating but moving forward into the dark.

Clint blinked, confused, and Tony sighed.

"Psychic, remember?"

"I knew that."

_Maze,_ she thought after a few feet, _doesn't cover it. Try labyrinth._

Her finger tips traced smooth, cold, presumably gray walls, as goose bumps rose on the skin of her arms.

Her breath nearly caught at the complexity of it, sensing twists and turns and dead ends as she encountered them. The floor gradually steepened, until they were making a downhill trek in the dark, the walls curved, inward and outward, making walking in a straight line impossible, and their footsteps echoed in a fashion almost arcane.

This, she thought, inexplicably proud of Tony Stark, was as much a work of art as it was a prison.

She made a mental note to voice that notion at some point, and smiled as she rounded another pitch-black corner.

"You might want to slow down," Tony called, wincing as he tripped.

Clint, for his part, was simultaneously awe-inspired and jealous of her deft, careful maneuvers.

In the cavernous series of paths designed by Stark and frequented by the archer himself, she navigated better than either of them.

If he had harbored any doubt of her abilities before, he was a believer now.

Inky black waited in every direction, the deep, dark, tangible kind that only came from being deep, deep underground, where sunlight had never touched and never would. It closed in like a hungry maw, and Renard rushed into it, surging forward towards the only light she could find.

She locked onto it, sprinting to reach it, dancing and twirling, dodging sudden blockades and moving as fast as she could, blood pumping like electricity in her veins.

"Wait up!" Clint called as the sound of her footsteps faded and he and Tony tried to keep up without success.

"How sure are you of her sanity?" He demanded, slowing when it became clear that they couldn't match her pace.

"She's here, isn't she?"

The pale flicker of fluorescent light hit her lids like a spotlight and she smiled, innocently but for a sharp, self-satisfied edge.

Before her was a panel of glass, as tall and wide as the hall she was in, secured to the walls and ceiling with a thick steel frame.

Behind it laid a dead end, something that looked like a desk and another guard dressed in shield fatigues. He stood at attention on the other side of it, and she flashed him a megawatt grin and her id card before he entered the code and let her in through a thick, metal door, set directly into the wall of glass.

It swung open slowly, a long hiss of air depressurizing preceding it.

"Hi," She smiled even wider as she stepped in, and the guard- a tall, over-built man with gray-streaked hair and five o'clock shadows to put Nixon to shame.

His tag dubbed him Isaac Greene, and he blinked at her -almost groggy after so much inactivity- then managed a weak solute.

"Could you hold the door for a minute? Mr. Stark shouldn't be long." Her smile turned guilty, but he just shrugged and nodded.

She continued past him and mentally mapped out the room- two rolling desk chairs, situated behind she now identified as a series of complex-looking control panels, situated facing another massive, probably-bullet-poof sheet of glass that further bisected the space. Beyond that, there was a bed and a bench.

On the bench, his back to her, dressed in a grey t shirt and jeans, was the man that had single handedly murdered hundreds of innocent human beings, unprovoked.

"Hey, Renard! Thanks for waiting up and not just running ahead and leaving us in the dust, because _that_ would have been really inconsiderate."

She tore her eyes away to see Tony and Clint stepping in.

"You're welcome," She replied smugly, crossing her arms and leaning on the control panel.

Tony huffed at her, then plopped gracelessly into one of the chairs, logging into one of the computers and running some sort of diagnostic.

Renard bit back a groan, desperate to just start her first shift already, but aware that Tony himself had work to do.

"How long is this going to take?" Clint intoned for her, and she fought a smile, beginning to genuinely like the little man.

"Not long," Tony assured him, sounding irritated. He typed long lines of code- some sort of computer script- and uploaded the program he had been telling her about on the way down (she had eventually stopped trying to understand and assumed that it was something that was important for some reason or another).

After several minutes of clever, computer-ish things, Tony brought up what looked like a log-in page.

He turned the screen to face her.

"You get here at six, you log in. You leave at nine, you log out. The code changes to eight different, randomly generated digits every time you do, so that bit is important. Don't forget it." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder, pointing to the keypad by the door they'd just entered. "You use your psychic mojo to get and enter the code. Retinas scan next, then that keycard- yours, mine, Coulson's and his-" he nodded to Isaac "- are the only ones it will except. Then a good old fashioned bolt."

"Thorough," she observed.

"More like trial and error," Clint snorted from his spot, leaning against the first panel of glass and glaring determinedly at Loki; like he was making sure the man didn't forget how much he was hated.

"All this plus a psychic mutant and a Shield guard? It's _thorough_." Tony threw the man a quick, insulted glance and then turned his attention back on Renard.

"These," He pointed to the screen he hadn't touched. "Are the security camera's feeds. Normal and infra-red. Don't mess with them; they're high tech and very, _very_ sensitive."

She nodded, and Tony turned his eye on Loki's cage door.

"That cannot be opened or closed without an encrypted key. It generates three thousand codes per minute, so it's too fast for anyone to hack."

"You've got that key somewhere safe, right?"

Tony grinned.

"I haven't made it yet."

Her eyebrows shot up, and Clint laughed.

"My reaction exactly."

Their brief moment of camaraderie was interrupted abruptly by Isaac, who coughed and gestured to the still-open door.

"My shift ended an hour ago, so if you could… speed things up a little, Mr. Stark?"

"I'm done, unless you have any more questions…?"

Tony turned a cautious, questioning gaze on Renard, and she shook her head, assuring him that no, no, she got it all. The door was shut and she was alone rather suddenly. She couldn't blame them for deserting her so quickly, and she wanted to be alone anyways. She had just picked a seat when a voice addressed her.

"Anything to say?"

She twirled to face him, hand going to the gun at her hip.

Loki was standing now, facing her with a malicious smirk. She cocked her head, unsure what he meant, and it must have shown, because he elaborated without prompt.

"Every man to stand in you place right now has had a lecture, a monologue to deliver. Have you nothing to say?"

Renard stood straighter, clasping her hands behind her back and concentrating on keeping her voice level.

"I'd tell you to die in a cold, dark hole, but- well." She shrugged, gesturing to their surroundings. "Here we are."

He laughed- a strained, half mad noise in the back of his throat- and she wondered briefly _how, exactly_ she was hearing him so clearly through a foot of solid, reinforced glass, but the thought was cut off when he continued.

"A joke_ and_ an insult- how _eloquent._ I wonder, though, how long can you keep up such a façade?"

She kept her expression locked, grinding her teeth behind her lips.

"To what are you referring?"

"_You know exactly to what I am referring, you puny, pathetic little thing._" His fist hit the glass with an unintimidating _thunk_, and he loomed over her- or tried to, but experienced difficulty in that she was only an inch or so shorter than him, and standing several feet away. He took several long, deep breaths before turning his attention back on her.

"How long can you remain calm, hmm? How long until the fear boiling in your veins starts to show in your face, do you think?" His breath fogged up the glass as he leaned closer. "How long can you pretend it isn't tearing you apart, being so very close to _me_?"

She froze.

He wasn't wrong, in a way- her blood, as it were, did boil, her façade did start to crack.

"As long as it takes," she replied, speaking more to herself than to him. He laughed again, and she paused, pushing her glasses up onto the bridge of her nose with shaking hands and continuing, voice monotone.

"I can remain calm for as long as it takes, because _I am not afraid of you._" She took several steps forward, navigating around the console, then leaning against it and staring into the glass. "I am _angry_- I am _disgusted_, and _I am enraged_ that you are allowed to _stand here today_. But I am _not_ afraid."

Icy eyes locked onto her, seemingly hungry for someone to argue with.

"Oh… I think you are," He taunted her; his face as close to the glass as it could be while not touching. "I think you're too human- too weak, too spineless- too mortal_ not_ to be afraid."

She surged forward, hitting the glass with a startling thump, arms wide, fingers splayed. Loki stepped back, looking at her glowering form, shocked. Her eyes, almost but not quite invisible through her glasses, burnt.

"_Play no games with me. You are no God, and you know not with whom you are dealing."_

Her tone was menacing, verging on the feral, and Loki stood speechless.


	5. Ten months, 6 days before incident

******Ten months, six days before incident:**

******Location: Earth, USA: Midtown, Manhattan: New York City: Stark Tower, floor zero.**

******Subject(s) involved: Renard, Gabriel, Isaac Greene and Loki**

Six days had passed without much trouble.

Her initial outburst aside, Renard had managed to keep her thoughts to herself durring that time, and after a while, a routine- fragile as it was- had begun to form.

Days began with her waking up- if she had fallen alseep at all- and going to work, every day but sunday, six to nine.

Herself aside, there were three guards: Nina Remerez- a tall, pretty Hispanic woman who guarded the elavator entrance located in the waiting room, dressed in civilian atire- Ian Cassidy- a pale, muscular blonde man that guarded the elevator's exit into the maze, armed with an ak47 and dressed in SHEILD fatigues- and Isaac Greene, the stout, aged soldier who guarded the door to the fish bowl (thus nicknamed by Renard, the term was fast catching on).

Nina was shaping up to be her favorite- every morning as she came and every night as she left, the woman greeted her with either a covert nod or a bro-fist as she passed.

This time it was a bro-fist as Renard left at nine for her apartment, one hand dragging against the wall as she walked.

The other reached back and undid the too-tight bun as the nape of her neck, brushing thru unruly curls and knots. Renard groaned in relief when she finally reached the elevator, nodding to the guard stationed beside it and climbing in. She shivered as the dark of the maze receded, trying to shake the almost oppressing silence. She wondered why she hadn't noticed it before, concluding that- the light of her enthusiasm long since overpowered by frustration- she had simply been distracted.

___Ignorance is bliss,_ she snarked inwardly, and rubbed her temples in resignation.

It had taken her by surprise, how oddly taxing the job she had carefully set herself up for was.

She had not expected to ___like_ being a glorified nanny- she wasn't quite that daft- but at the same time, she had fully expected to be able to handle it.

Not that the task was all that difficult- or honestly, one that she minded. But at the back of her mind, like a leaking faucet, there was guilt. Acidic in consistency, it ate at her slowly, whispering to her the things she should have been doing instead.

___Loki must be kept; _she defended herself to herself, nervous.

___Loki wouldn't need to be kept if you had done your job right in the first place, you moron._

"Most people have to get married to suffer this kind of abuse," she muttered in a winey voice, rubbing her forehead and stepping out onto the ground-level.

******Same date, twenty minutes later- location: Avenue Apartments, floor three, room 218.**

Her apartment- after almost a week, still wholly unfurnished- was inconveniently close to her area of employment: she owned twelve things including her clothing, and one of those was a motorcycle that she now had no practical use for.

Renard scowled, tossing her keys over her shoulder and shrugging her jacket off, leaving it to pool in the middle of the floor.

A pile of blankets resided in the corner of what would've been the kitchen (if she owned a stove or refrigerator), and, after digging through the junk-filled cabinets and sticking a bowl of ramen in the microwave, Renard dropped into it happily.

"Hard day at work?" A mocking voice called.

She would have jumped if she'd had the energy.

"Sometimes I hate you, Gabe." She said instead, twisting to face the familiar intruder.

"Let me make it up to you, then."

The scrawny, platinum blond woman stepped off the fire escape and onto the counter (located just beneath it), closing the window and perching beside the microwave.

Renard sighed, rubbing her eyes and sitting up to lean against the wall.

"New info?" She guessed hopefully.

"Indeed," the pale, elf-like nuisance confirmed with a grin.

Tucked under her arm was a laptop, which she proceeded to balance on her knees and open. Tilting it so that Renard could see, she then pulled up several documents full of what looked like legal jargon.

"We have it narrowed down to three different people," Gabe informed her, eyes glued to the screen. "The first, most likely subject being Erin Grey- business woman, suspected of human trafficking from Mexico to the U.S."

"Sounds promising," Renard agreed, wishing her friend would drop the awkward, buisness-like tone and simply talk to her.

(Renard being Renard, she did not voice this desire.)

"It gets better- other than fitting in with she-who-shall-not-be-named's physical preferences…" Gabe pulled up an image of a woman, maybe twenty five, with straight auburn hair and dark blue eyes. "She's single, an orphan, and- according to her last psych exam- bipolar."

"Powerful, attractive red head with mental issues and no personal attachments."

___Too easy._

"That's the profile, isn't it?"

"To the T, but it's all substantial. Do you have anything more… specific?"

Gabe frowned, turning back to the computer and opening a Google window.

It was quiet for several moments before a grin lit Gabe's face up.

"You're going to love this- you know how I said she's a business woman?"

"Yeah?"

"The fortune she's running is inherited- passed from parent to eldest sibling."

"You didn't say anything about siblings- and isn't she an orphan?"

"Well yeah, ___now_."

Renard's mouth formed an 'o'.

"Recent deaths in the family?"

"Several- her dad, two older brothers and aunt all committed suicide within a month of one another."

"Via?"

"___Hanging_."

The cold fingers of a shiver traced down Renards back, and she shook her head- pressing on despite the horror winding its tentacles around her heart.

She coughed, clearing her throat.

"Yeah, that sounds like Veronica. Who's next?"

"Madison Vey- cut-throat lawyer, twenty six, smoking hot red head."

"Suspected axe murderer?"

"You aren't far off- the last guy she lost a case to was found hanging from a meat hook through the jugular."

"That is ___disgusting_."

"Tell me about it," Gabe agreed, nose wrinkling. "And bachelor number three isn't much better."

"Bachelor? They don't usually go for men, Gabe."

Humor flashed in Gabe's eyes, and she raised her eyebrows.

"Shut up- that is not what I meant and you know it."

"I know nothing, young grasshopper. And you're right, it would be out of character, but they've been trying a lot harder to hide, after last time. You've got to expect some deviation from the modus-operandi."

Renard sighed, leaning her head back against the wall and pinching the bridge of her nose in frustration.

"___Fine._ What's he like?"

"The names Craig Taylor, and he is crazy. Not even normal, crime-of-passion crazy either. He's been in and out of therapy since he was four, and seven months ago he was actually committed to an asylum."

"I doubt Veronica would take someone in the mad house, Gabe."

"No, she only takes people who___belong_ in the mad house." Gabe rolled her eyes and shut the laptop.

"Fair point," Renard compromised, getting up and pulling her noodles out.

"Speaking of people who belong in mad houses," Gabe pried as she added the flavoring."How bad is it?"

"Bad," Renard replied, closing the microwave. "And by bad I mean horrible."

"Why? What's he done?"

Renard shook her head, words escaping her.

"Nothing- that's the problem. He doesnt have to ___do_ anything. Him just being there, alive and well, is all it takes to make me angry."

"I can't say I blame you, but you haven't acted on that anger yet, have you?"

"A little bit." She had to admit from around a mouthful of Ramen. "That first day... I wasn't prepared for how much I hate him. It made control hard. And then even after that, when he stopped bothering me…"

"What is it?" Gabe inquired softly, climbing off the counter and sitting in front of her.

"...I thought I could handle it- Loki ___and_ Veronica. But I can't, it's exhausting."

The blond sighed, leaning forward.

"Renard- do you trust me?"

Renard's eyes popped wide in surprise.

"Of course I do!" She clenched her fists, open and closed until she felt like she could talk without screaming. "How could you even ask?"

She ___loved_ Gabe- she was by far her favorite sibling.

"Then trust me to help you. That's why I'm here, if you care to recall. You aren't alone," Gabe said confidently, flicking a silver strand of hair out of her eyes. "And as___I _recall, you aren't alone against Loki either. There's Stark, and the Avengers, and SHEILD."

"I don't trust SHEILD."

"In this alone, you can- they want him locked up just as badly as you do."

Renard sighed, putting her ramen down.

"I ___know_ that. But-"

"No buts," Gabe interrupted firmly. "You can do this, and you will do this- you made your mind up about that long before you sought my opinion of it."

Gabe was barely five foot tall- very thin, very pale, and ___very _blond, without any trace of muscle in her entire body- and yet suddenly, she was almost intimidating.

Her eyes flashed, and Renard was reminded- friend, sister aside- that she was speaking to her superior.

"You are afraid." She said, glare softening. "I cannot say that I blame you. But now is not the time to lose patience. I can pick up the slack where Veronica is concerned. When your help is needed, you will be contacted, but untill then, focus on Loki."

Renard swallowed, not making eye contact.

Gabe reached up, reluctance coloring her features, and squeezed her friend's shoulder.

Without preamble, she let go and made her way back to the window.

Renard was alone once again.


	6. Ten months, 4 days before incident

******Ten months, four days before incident:**

******Location: Earth, U.S.A, Midtown: Manhattan, Stark tower floor zero.**

******Subjects involved: Renard, Isaac Greene, Ian Cassidy, Nina Ramirez, Anthony Stark, Loki**

___"You're cheating,"_ Ian decided.

"How do you cheat at go-fish?" Renard demanded, rolling her eyes and readjusting her earpiece.

___"Maybe you just suck."_ Nina suggested, voice deadpan.

___"That's hurtful,"_ their male comrade insisted, pout audible even over the airways.

___"It's true, bro- I've haven't played this game in like ten years and I'm kicking your kahunas."_

Renard rolled her eyes, leaning back and sighing. A long, loud series of cracks and pops rang out as she twisted her back. They were followed by another chorus as she craned her neck to the side.

She needed to get an actual bed.

___Soon._

She'd fallen into restless, half-awake slumber shortly after Gabriel had left, and had overslept because of it. Not wanting to waste time, she had gotten ready in a blur of motion- brushing her teeth whilst pulling her boots on, and pulling her hair back into a braid as she washed her face.

(This carefully balanced procedure went somewhat awry when she tried to add eating a pop tart to the mix- she was out the door on time, though, so she counted it as a win.)

If anyone noticed her unusually bedraggled appearance, they considerately didn't say anything.

Renard was shocked to realize she actually liked her co-workers

Nina- who had greeted her with a deck of cards on her eighth day- especially.

At first she hadn't understood what she expected her to do with the cards, but quickly realized that Nina had assumed that she was getting bored, and wanted to help.

Her conclusion erroneous but endearing, Renard played along- accompanied by Ian, of course. It took them a few days to run out of games involving cards, and four more to conclude that rock-paper-scissors wasn't possible over the phone… blue tooth…___thing _that they'd been given.

Nor, incidentally, was I-spy.

Defaulting back to cards, and then proceeding to exhaust every game from Black Jack to Texas Hold Em, there they were; trying to play a child's game without the benefit of seeing one another.

___"Ace of spades?"_ Ian tried.

"Go fish." Renard replied, not bothering to look at her hand.

___"You're dead to me."_

___"Don't make me separate you."_ Isaac threw in, voice gravely, and Renard turned to see him glaring viscously at his own hand across the glass.

He looked like he wanted to rip the cards up, and Renard paused to study him.

It struck her, suddenly, how tired he looked.

Worse than her.

His hair- somewhere between salt and pepper and steel wool in color- seemed greyer than it had the day before. As did his skin, if she thought about it. Pale, angry blue irises stood out against the dark, puffy circles beneath his eyes.

They weren't friends.

He was an almost complete stranger to her, as they'd only exchanged a maximum of eight words. But 'frail' wasn't something she had come to associate with the man. He always stood erect, shoulders back, chin up with all the poise of an admiral. Age had softened a hard, square jaw and razor sharp cheek bones, but everything else about the man was rock hard. Recently, however, small things had begun to mar that perfect, militant facade: his to-potent glare at his cards.

The small tremor as he held them.

Minute signs, but signs none the less. It was a saddening sight, if not an altogether surprising one: the grapevine had informed her that he'd lost a grandchild in the attack on Manhattan.

Renard swallowed.

He was fifty, almost sixty.

Most people started having kids around twenty five- assuming the same of both him and his offspring, how old must that child have been?

Seven?

Eight?

Renard shivered, and wondered how he did it.

Standing, two walls of glass away from the man responsible, not allowed any closer, not allowed vengeance or even retribution.

___"Hello? Earth to Renard?"_ She jumped, shaking off the shadowy thoughts and blinking back into reality.

"Sorry- what?"

___"It's your turn, beautiful."_

"Right," she breathed, stealing herself with a sidelong glare- assuring herself that the villain in question wouldn't be going anywhere for a long, long while.

"Go fish."

Her eyes followed him for the next few days- he showed no improvement.

She had to force herself not to stare each day as she entered the fish-bowl.

The changes were small but significant.

Every day he looked worse.

Shaken, unsteady, paler all the time- and then, like a sign from God that she couldn't ignore him anymore, he began to ___lose weight_.

(No doubt unintentionally, as the last thing the man needed was to drop a few pounds.)

"You should eat that," Renard insisted one day, gesturing to the bag Nina had brought, sitting next to him.

He shook his head and scowled weakly, not bothering to reply.

She scowled, half tempted to log out early and force-feed the man.

Talking to him ___just wasn't working._

Everything she had said thus far had been brushed aside, with poultry excuses like 'I'm getting tired of fast food', or 'I'll eat when I get home.' It didn't seem like he was actively trying to avoid meals, so much as he was too preoccupied with his thoughts to realize, or perhaps to remember that he should eat.

It was extremely disturbing, to her.

"Come on, now- there are onion rings."

Again, he didn't reply, simply waving her off with significantly less patience than before.

Words had always come easily to her, but then, somewhat ironically, she had no idea what to say.

All form of articulation simply left her.

Not knowing what to do, she stopped arguing and sat- reluctant to speak and unwilling to say nothing, eyes locked, tongue frozen.

___"What's happening?"_ Ian's voice in her ear startled her.

"Isaac isn't eating what Nina brought."

___"Did she forget the onion rings?"_

"I am not joking," Renard protested, trying not to sound concerned and to express that concern at the same time. "This is not the first time- it is becoming a problem!"

___"Relax, beautiful,"_ Ian patronized her, not understanding. ___"There's no law against lacking an appetite."_

Again, she found herself inexplicably speechless.

"He should be eating," she managed eventually.

A few hours later, after her shift, she found herself talking with Tony.

"Are you sure?" He asked, skepticism coloring his tone.

Renard shifted her weight from foot to foot uncomfortably, avoiding eye contact and trying to appear sure.

"I believe so." She said after a beat, voice firm as always but body language betraying her.

"Renard," Tony sighed, placing his brandy on the desk and rubbing circles into his temples. "I can't call Fury and start a cat fight over his choice of guards just because you can't play nice with them."

"I like Isaac." She asserted indignantly.

"Then what's the issue?" Her employer demanded, standing up and coming around his desk to face her.

She paused, again struggling to put feelings into words.

"He can't do it."

Tony's eyebrows went up.

"What do you mean?"

"He lost someone in the attack. It's… ___wearing_ on him, being so close and unable to do anything. I don't think he can keep it up."

Tony seemed to consider that for a minute, then sighed.

"Okay," he breathed, pinching the bridge of his nose and tensing up. "I get what your trying to say, and Im not saying you dont have a point- but your intuition really isn't enough for what you're asking."

"The intuition of a psychic isn't enough for you?" She demanded, hands on her hips.

"___Touché_, but no, no it isn't. I've got almost no pull with S.H.E.I.L.D, and ___news flash_- I used most of it up getting you here."

Renard mentally groaned.

"I'm not asking you to pull him off the guard. Just- have him trade positions with Nina, or Ian. Just get him a little farther away."

Tony let out a deep, troubled exhale and opened his eyes.

"I'll see what I can do, Renard. But don't expect to much."


	7. Ten months, 3 days before incident

**Ten months, three days before incident:**

**Location: Earth, U.S.A, Midtown: Manhattan, Stark tower floor zero.**

**Subjects involved: Renard, Isaac Greene, Loki, Ian Cassidy, Anthony Stark**

Renard was a psychic.

Contrary to popular belief, that didn't mean she was all-knowing.

"I'm afraid that won't work."

_"Shut up."_

She wished she was, right then.

Isaac cursed as yet another code failed, and pressed in one more with no success.

He'd been trying since before she'd gotten there, almost an hour ago.

With one hand, he typed on the keypad, fingers shaking uncontrollably, pressing buttons without distinction: not even trying for a pattern anymore.

The other hand clutched his gun.

"If _I_ could not manage to decipher it," Loki scowled. "I sincerely doubt you will be able to."

_"Why don't you just shut up?" _Isaac snarled back, eyes wild, gaze bouncing from the keypad to Loki, teeth barred.

Renard swallowed, creeping as close as she could while not leaving the concealment of the shadows, concentrating on remaining unseen.

She was about an hour early.

Visions of murder and suicide had plagued her all night, paralising her in a lucid dream until her own scream had jolted her awake.

She saw Isaac getting lucky, typing in the right code. She saw a hand with a gun, stuck through the slot she usually delivered Loki's food through. She saw a cloud of blood, a fine, dark pink spray hitting the walls.

She saw splatters of gore and gun smoke and two messy, untimely deaths.

Loki opend his mouth, presumably to unleasha yet another biting deterrent, but Isaac- clearly having had enough of that- cut him off: raising his gun and firing several rounds into the glass.

The acoustics of the labyrinth amplified the shots times ten, and all three of them had to cover their pained, ringing ears.

None of the bullets made it through the barier, instead forming cracked craters and catching in them, but the effect of it was undeniably intimidating.

Losing the meager hope that maybe she could talk him out of it- that maybe they could pretend the whole ordeal had never taken place- Renard stepped forward.

"Its rather dangerous to shoot inside, you know. You might put someone's eye out."

Both men froze.

Isaac cleared his throat, not daring to turn around and face her.

Loki watched her stoically, with something like reluctant relief glittering in his eyes.

She had gotten ready hurriedly- her hair was pulled back in a long, still-damp braid, and she was dressed plainly in a beater, cargo pants, boots and her glasses.

Her own gun was in its holster at her hip, and she rested her hand on it threateningly.

"_Isaac_. Put. The gun. Down."

He swallowed thickly, fist tightening, finger resting against the trigger.

She knew what he was thinking.

"Almost one thousand people died in the attack on New York." She quickly took the last few steps out of the labyrinth and rested her hand on his shoulder.

He jerked away, finger tightening, ready to press. He raised it almost to his temple, and his hand shook.

"I think the death toll is high enough- don't you?"

A stiffed sob left him, and the sound was almost unrecognizable.

The gun dropped.

"Kick it to me."

He did, and it skittered across the concrete and stopped less than a foot away from her.

Quickly gathering it and shoving it into the waist of her pants, she rounded on him angrily and grabbed him by the collar. Twisting violently, she swung him away from the door into to the mouth of the hallway.

"Move," she snarled, pushing him in. "You have someone to talk to."

**Six hours later, same date, same place**

Stark didn't take it well.

S.H.E.I.L.D had personel over to collect Isaac in minutes.

"I thought I could handle it," he explained, voice composed but inexplicably raw. "And if he'd left well enough alone, I might have. But… I don't…" he cast Renard a tired look.

"... It isn't going to bring her back."

Something cold twisted in Renard's chest, and she swallowed.

"I'm sorry," she said, before he was escorted out of the building.

She wondered how long it would take, for Stark of Fury or whoever was running this freak-show to replace him. Most people, she'd been informed, were too afraid.

Following this train of thought, it struck her how very changed her almost-friend was from a month ago- out of his fatigues, the assumed strength of him stripped, a plethora of small things became evident. A hurt, haunted shadow followed him, one that time wouldn't dissipate. The distinct slouch of age had gripped him, a nearly-defeated drag to his usually-brisk pace.

The trip from her work to her apartment was a half-remembered blur, the night passing in a not dissimilar manner. She stared up at the ceiling from her pile of blankets, not in the state of mind to get any real work done, and thought.

She thought of how much damage one spoiled brat with daddy-issues could do to _so many people- _about Isaac, and how much he must have missed that little grandchild. She thought of the child's parents, and his friends at school, and wondered how many of them were left.

And then she got angry.

**Ten hours later, same place, ten months, two days before incident**

Shakespeare had served her well in life- a reliable distraction from everything, short of nuclear holocausts and starvation.

And yet she found her hands shaking, fingers gripping the pages too tightly, mind wandering from her tried and true means of coping to the man at whom she was so _explosively _enraged.

"You're looking rather upset," said man intoned dryly.

Renard didn't reply, keeping her features set in an emotionless expression.

He waited for a minute, hoping to get a rise out of her, and scowling when he failed.

"I certainly hope_ I_ haven't anything to do with it."

The barb stung like rubbing alcohol in a flesh wound, but she turned her page calmly and continued trying to read.

Othello was her favorite play- by far- and yet she couldn't seem to tune in to it.

Loki's patience with her was wearing thin, and he made it known with several more cutting remarks- unfortunately for him, though, so was Renard's.

"Has anyone ever told you how irritating you are?" She snapped, not looking up but letting the acid in her tone seep through.

He looked delighted.

"Many times- but yours is among the most sincere, I'll have you know."

"Huzzah." She should have stopped there- she shouldnt have gone even that far- but she was itching for a reason to scream at him, and from the look of it he felt the same.

"You are rather unpleasant company," Loki sighed in mock disappointment, leaning back so that he was braced against the wall. "I shall have to complain to someone about that."

"Like who?" She snorted.

Ian would clap her on the back for it- ditto Nina and Tony, and they were the only ones likely to hear about it.

"You seem angry," Loki said, eyebrows raised.

She slammed her book shut.

"_Answer me honestly, darling_- I'm _curious_. Were you _born_ a vindictive panty-waste, or did it take effort?"

His victorious sneer tightened, some of the satisfaction of getting her to talk leaving him.

"I have no idea what you're talking about." He attempted to regain his arrogant flippancy, but struggled with it.

"Then let me clarify," Renard ground out through grit teeth, frustration mixing with anger and boiling over. "Read my lips: _you… are_… _despicable_."

"I don't see what I've done to make you think so very little of me, _miss Renard_."

It was the first time he'd ever used her chosen name, and the sound of him saying it sent pained shivers down her spine.

"Just Renard," she intoned back at him, reigning in her already volatile temper. "And honestly, I realize it's lonely in your little fish bowl, but I am in no mood for civil conversation. Pick on someone else." _Oh, wait,_ she was tempted to add- _you haven't got anyone else, have you?_

"That's rather unfortunate for you, seeing as my usual source of entertainment has been- what's the phrase? - _let go_."

Renard saw red, and, unable or unwilling to take it sitting down, stood up- leveraging herself on the console and leaning forward, venom in her heart.

She knew it.

She _knew_ Isaac would never have cracked without provocation.

"_Entertainment?_" She sputtered, a mingling of horror and rage pouring out. She grabbed her book and leaned across the console, throwing it it through the slot she normally slipped his food through. "How I Met Your Mother is_ entertainment_. _Shakespeare_ is entertainment. _Toying with sad old men is not entertainment!"_

She didnt even want to know how he _defined_ entertainment.

What had he said? How long had he been saying it?

Loki, evidently begining to understand that she had no tolerance for sadism, wisely kept his mouth shut.

"What is wrong with you?" She continued, teeth barred. "_You kill his kid, and then you torment him because it's fun?!_"

Loki, wit abandoning him, floundered, mouth open.

"I what?"

She would have laughed if the whole thing weren't so utterly _sad._

_That poor baby…._

"What are you talking about, woman?"

The words were uttered before he had a chance to consider them, and they hung in the air like a thunderhead as he realized- belatedly- what they meant.

"You unleashed an army of _giant, flying lizard monsters _in one of the largest cities on earth," she said flatly, the Louisiana twang of her accent becoming more prominent- as it always did, when she was mad. "What, you didn't think there were any_ kids_ here? You didn't consider the_ collateral_?"

Silence- innate, when one was so far separated from other human beings- stretched for several minutes, and Renard was incredulous and heartbroken at the same time.

"You _didn't_, did you? You didn't even take the time to _check_."

A flicker of shame- the last thing she expected in the face of the lunatic- was overturned by what could only be labeled denial.

"I was not aware." He pushed the words through his lips, mind wrapping webs around what she was accusing him of, trying to spin it into something else. Something pretty, or at least not so very, very ugly. Something that wasn't his fault.

Renard didn't say anything for a moment, slowly standing up straight and considering the man in front of her.

He looked little like the Loki of which her visions had warned her- after months in near-solitude and little means, his immaculate garb confiscated… well.

That wasn't so hard to ignore. More disturbing than those were the changes his imprisionment had wrought- a sparse beard had grown in his time as a captive- his unusually long hair even longer, but lackluster, unlike before. Still lean and muscular, he was also noticeably_ thinner_, though he was in no danger of real malnutrition due to the rations. His paleness had left the realm of the healthy-if-unfortunate and gained that strange pasty-grey-pallor that came from never seeing the sun.

Every bullet she wanted to spit at him died on her lips, a thick, melancholy haze clouding out all the rest.

While she had no doubt that he deserved it, she recognized the fact that it would fix nothing, help no one.

Her eyes- of their own accord- flickerd to the clock on the computer.

Her shift had ended three minutes ago, and she couldn't get out of there fast enough.

Loki had the inexplicable urge to tell her to wait, as she logged out and left.

To give him a minute to explain- although he admittedly didn't know what he would say, if she did.


	8. ten months before incident

**Ten months before incident:**

**Location: Earth, U.S.A, Midtown: Manhattan, New York City, Avenue Apartments, floor one.**

**Subjects involved: Renard, Gabriel, Madison Vey **

She tried not to look.

She honestly did.

But every time she managed to turn away, a minute or so later, she found her eyes once again glued to the short, angry-looking... woman? Behind the counter.

_Stop_ _it_, Renard instructed herself, taring her eyes away and focusing straight ahead once more. The afore mentioned, highly androgynous cashier had no such qualms: her hard, penetrating glare made Renard squirm, and zip her hoodie up a little further- or try, as it was already all the way up. Dressed in an old pair of black sweats and a hoodie, she was commando underneath, and trying not to look like it.

The old woman could tell, though.

_She could feel it._

Renard blinked, wondering when and where she had lost her sanity, then shook off the paranoia.

She gnawed her lip impatiently as the drier rumbled- her load, consisting of _all the clothes she owned,_ was taking forever to dry. She wanted to leave and come back when they were done, but she had tried that last week and lost a bra for it.

Against her better judgement, she peeked- from the corner of her eye- and found the haggard creature still staring at her with a hatefull exspression.

"Ignore her," her neighbor- Jessica? Julia?- whispered, trying not to move her lips.

"How?" Renard replied in the same manner, carefull not to look at her, just in case she got caught.

Jessica/Julia shrugged covertly, folding her own clothes as carefully as she could whilst moving so fast she was almost a blur.

A loud beep signaled her own clothes were finally done drying, and Renard pulled them out, dumping them into her basket in a graceless heap. She cast a worried glance at the woman, henceforth to be known as 'The Hag', glare alternating from Renard to the woman beside her.

"This is ridiculous," she grumbled, almost inaudibly.

"_Right_?" Her companion murmured back, sounding incredulous.

Renard bit back a smile and began to fold her laundry.

Then her phone rang.

Both women immediately jerked to check on the Hag, who's glare was now firmly planted on Renard.

She pulled the phone out of her front pocket, fumbling as she tried to make it stop.

"Holy crap, Gabe!" She whisper-yelled, clutching it to her ear and trying not to freak out. "The world had better be on the verge of ending!"

"Every day," Gabe responded in an irritating voice. "But yeah, actually: I need your help."

"What for?" Renard demanded.

"I have a visual on candidate numero dos- you know she who shall not be nammed better than anyone, so do you think you could tell if she's been hanging around?"

"I dont know. Maybe, maybe not."

"Can I get a percent?"

"Sixty-fourty."

"Sixty being...?"

"Not."

"I'll take those odds- we need to narrow it down, and seeing how she reacts to you is as good a way as any."

"Your definition of good and mine clearly differ," Renard replied uncomfortably. "But fine- when and where?"

"The Coral Room at nine: dress fancy- and by fancy I mean slutty- hide your money in your bra and tell the bouncer that looks like Mr. Clean's jail bird cousin that Jack sent you."

"Are you kidding me?"

"About telling him that Jack sent you? Yes, yes I am- just slip him a twenty or somthing, I don't know, but be there."

She hung up without preamble, and left Renard staring at the cheap cellular in her hand, sighing before turning it off.

"Boyfriend?" Jessica/Julia guessed.

"Sister," Renard corrected, huffing.

**Three hours later, same date, location: The Coral Room**

Breathing, Renard had learned in her old age, was important.

Unfortunately for her, the woman whom's laundry she had stolen was both significantly shorter, and thinner than herself. Said dress- made to be short and form fitting in the first place- was stretched tight over every plane of her, and hiked up every time she stood up or sat down.

(It fit right in.)

She'd let her hair down, in it's naturally untamable state, and- eyeliner, lipstick and mascara never having been her speed- did what she could with a sharpie and tinted chapstick. She piled concealer and foundation around her eyes, mostly hiding the imperfections, both natural and unnatural, and hoped the dimness of the club would do the rest.

Not owning any heels or jewelry- excluding her little silver cross, which she somehow doubted would fit in- she opted to wear her regular boots and snagged a passing stranger's bangle. She'd put it in lost and found later.

The bouncer was seven foot of muscle packed into a five-foot frame, and really sort of _did_ look like Mr. Clean. He scowled at her in greeting and waved her through after some paper persuasion (also known as her mattress money).

Her first impression was- admitably- _ew_. The room consisted of a bar, a dance floor and a couple of tables, all of which looked somewhat grimey, and the bass of the music- by which she means the deafening, uninteligable noise- made the windows shake.

Strobe lights lit the area, and she was glad she'd worn boots, because had she scrounged anything taller, she'd have had a miserable time trying not to trip over the crowd. A woman with a cleopatra-esq necklace (appearing to be the same sort of metal as her bangle) almost fell beside her: Renard caught her, and snatched the necklace as she righted her. Shouldering her way through the sea of inebriated people and to the bar, she picked up an abandoned glass and narrowed her eyes, scanning the room.

The crowd was in no way deficit of short platinum blonds, and Renard bit her lip, not sure how to locate _her_ short platinum blond.

She felt a tap on her shoulder.

"Looking for someone?" A deep, male voice commented from behind.

Renard blinked- then, fighting a smile, slowly turned to him. Seven foot tall at least, the man had pale, shaggy blond hair, and skin so pale it was ghostly. He was built, but lanky, as if he had recently quit his workout routine.

His eyes were a deep, startling blue.

"A bartender, Gabe?"

Gabe smiled, showing two rows of perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth.

"My usual wasn't intimidating enough." He shrugged, a quick flex and drop of his shoulders, as if that explained everything.

"You are going to get fired so fast," she laughed.

"Meh. I've had the job for approximately two hours- not all that attached." Her friend shrugged again, cleaning out a few glasses as he did so. "Besides- I have it on good authority that cut-backs are coming. Soon."

"You're terrible." Renard replied, toasting him with her empty glass and allowing admiration to seep into her voice.

"I try," he smiled one last time, then got down to business.

He nodded to a woman on the other side of the bar, and Renard zeroed in on her. Short, maybe five-four, the woman was dressed in a sleeveless blue dress, even shorter than Renard's own, black stilletos on her feet, her red hair pulled back into a high pony tail.

"Is she alone?" Renard asked, studying the woman from the corner of he eye.

"Completly- I've been hitting on her since she got here, and she looks more uncomfortable every time I do."

"That doesn't sound like Veronica." Renard replied, raising her eyebrows.

"One way to find out," Gabe replied, raising his eyebrows back at her.

Renard sighed (always reluctant in her part of what she'd long ago deemed 'fishing') and, with enough strength to made the collision audible, slapped him.

A few people turned to look, but not many- still, she put on her angry face and stormed off. She made a quick trip around the bar, then tapped the red headded woman on the shoulder, smiling with as much realism as possible.

"Sorry," Renard smiled as charmingly as she could. "But could I sit with you? The tenders been bothering me, and I want a witness."

She wasn't sure that she had spoken loud enough for a minute, as the woman just stared dumbly at her for a while before snapping out of her reverie.

"Sure, yeah- me too, actually."

"Great," she chirped, smiling harder and climbing onto the barstool closest to the woman.

The overwhelming noise of the crowd made communication abnormally difficult, but she stuck her hand out and attempted it anyways.

"Sorry, I haven't asked your name, have I?"

"Madison." She gripped the taller woman's hand uncertainly, half-smiling, half-grimacing.

"That's lovely," Renard smiled, hoping she wouldn't notice she hadn't offered her own name.

She didn't, or if she did, she didn't mind.

"So what do you do?"

"I _was_ a lawyer," she replied darkly, downing a shot Renard hadn't even noticed she had.

"Oh- didn't work out?"

"You try being a lawyer in this city- its hell."

"Oh, I wouldn't know- I'm new."

"Yeah, I could tell- your too friendly to be a New Yorker." She paused for a minute, considering. "Also too British."

"I'll take that as a complement," she replied, raising an eyebrow, and Maddison laughed a little.

They continued talking for longer than either expected, and Renard decided she liked the woman.

"I'm sorry, I have to ask..." Madison began as they made their way outside so that Maddison could smoke, and they could both actually hear one another. "Are you wearing contacts or somthing? Because I've never seen anyone with that eye color before, especially no one black."

"It's fine," Renard smiled, because it was, actually. "No, no contacts- just some... particularly odd genes."

Maddison nodded, believing the vauge story easily. Companionable silence filled the air, accompanied by the white noise of the city that never slept.

"Do you smoke?" She wondered aloud.

"Not anymore," Renard smiled, taking a cigaret and accepting a light. "But check it out."

Renard blew a ring of smoke the size of a baseball, then gagged, and Madison laughed.

"Out of practice?" She guessed.

"And content to be so- by _far_ the nastiest habbit I've ever had to kick."

"Lucky you," the red head glanced disdainfully at her own, before dropping it and grinding it out. "These things will kill me yet, I swear."

They exchanged numbers before Maddison went home and Renard reported back to Gabe.

"Consider your list narrowed," she said simply. "Veronica and her cronies haven't been anywhere near that girl."


	9. Nine months, 29 days before incident

**Nine months, twenty nine days before incident:**

**Location: Earth, U.S.A, Midtown: Manhattan, Avenue Apartments, floor three, room 218**

**Subjects involved: Renard, Anthony Stark, Fredrick Lowe, Loki**

_Stark's security, as far as he could tell, had only a few significant gaps left._

_The first and most prominent being that all the cameras (a device he had come to despise in a very short amount of time) were pointed inward, as his cage, and not one pointed _outward_, to the control room where he was monitored._

_He had already exploited that particular defect when he toyed with the guard who had left, and doubted he would have much trouble using it to his advantage once more._

_The second was in __the lock Stark had invented for his cage: at first, seemingly unbeatable, one flaw became apparent after he scrutinized the door itself. _

_The entranceway was constructed of solid steel, all the way though- except, he noticed after several scans, the seal of it, which was made of copper._

_A far weaker metal- and as such a potential weak link- it quickly caught his attention._

_If his limited understanding of Midguardian technology was correct, then all he had to do to bypass the troublesome lock entirely was to break that seal._

_Never one to waste time, Loki set to this task, scraping at it with what little magic he had left and- in the minute or so between guards- physically wearing it down._

_It was a grating, thankless task, and it took longer than he'd originally estimated- to be exact, more __than a month passed before he made a significant dent- literally. __It was a constant drain, saving as much energy as he could and then expending it all in one felled swoop._

_Persistence kept him at it, until- after yet another month, and though his exhaustion had long since begun to take its toll- the seal finally reached its breaking point._

_Worn paper thin in one area, the metal peice would snap the next time he put pressure on it._

_This accomplished, he focused on the timing of the thing- as previously mentioned, there was a minute in which his guards were distracted: often less, as Renard had an unpredictable tendency to wait for her relief to show up before she left her post._

_Loki's only real window was in that small sliver of time, as he knew from experience that an alarm went off as soon as the door opened, and he didn't have enough magic to leave a double behind._

_A solution to that particular blockade failed to make itself known, and he __groaned, running a hand through his hair and trying to think clearly._

_Long as he had been working on it, he was well aware that__ his newest escape plan was his riskiest yet: everything__- every last part of what he had to admit was a last ditch attempt- was reliant on perfect execution._

_Even assuming luck was on his side (and as of late, it hadn't been) the sheer number of unforeseen variables on which his plan hinged was disconcerting._

_Trying to be discrete, he studied his guard from the corner of his eye, assessing her: Renard,__ an unforeseen variable in and of herself._

_He didn't know what to expect of her at all._

_Could __she fight?_

_Would she try to call for help, or negotiate?_

_How well did she know how to _use_ that gun on her hip?_

_Loki wanted to groan- so abrupt had been her implantation into the carefully constructed world of his prison, he hadn't had enough time to study her._

_He wished again that his previous guard hadn't been replaced._

___Though the man had been an enormous specimen, composed of solid muscle and a much greater phsical threat than the woman with which he had been replaced, he was highly predictable._

___Disciplined and steadfast, he had never once stepped out of his established lines of conduct: he had never initiated a conversation, whether out of anger, sympathy, irritation, or simple boredom, as his replacement was prone to do._

___He had never responded to taunting or sarcasm, whether positively or negatively._

_He had been- in short- a soldier._

_And Renard, as capable as she seemed to be, was most certainly not: short-tempered and easily distracted, she had none of the restraint of her predecessor._

_She was untrained and highly emotional, a flight risk to say the least._

_He'd thought something must have happened- an injury of some sort, or a vacation- to the guard whose name he had not bothered to remember._

_He had thought she must have been temporary._

_But there she sat, long after her expected time had passed, clearly intended to be his regular day guard._

_Fury would never have picked her- of that much he was certain._

_Which begged the question: __why? __What made her special?_

_Nothing in particular stood out._

_She looked strong- of a limber, athletic build- but the kind of strength that came from regular labor, not training, and as previously __acknowledged, certainly no stronger than the man who's position she had taken over._

_Although she was clearly intelligent (and well-read, according to the book she'd thrown at his head) she was not outstandingly so: Stark's machines and their maintenance posed a challenge to her. _

_And though she kept her eye on him, her attention constantly wandered- so much so that she had begun to drag her fellow wardens along with her entirely off-track train of thought, into games to entertain herself, into light-hearted debates and arguments. This lack of attention was augmented by her utter refusal to acknowledge his existence- a stubborn gesture, meant to express her displeasure over his apparent mistreatment of the guard who had been removed- but one that could only serve his purpose in the long run._

_In this case, he was more than happy to be ignored._

_Still though, his focus was drawn back to the enigma of her presence._

_Was he missing somthing- some barely hidden, all important detail that would explain her sudden presence?_

_Was she a greater threat that he was estimating?_

_Or had his jailors simply become complacent, and no longer thought him a threat?_

_It would make sense, he supposed:_

_S.H.E.I.L.D, Stark and their various compatriots had been outstandingly successful in their ability to predict his movements, and to that end, Loki could allow himself to be- albeit, grudgingly- impressed._

_But this one time, it would seem, they had let their guard down._

_And as he scratched, with those last precious strands of magic, and the seal was broken and the guards were changed-_

Renard woke up, gasping for breath, covered in sweat.

Her gut twisted with nausia, her hair was plastered to her face.

The various blankets into which she had collapsed just an hour before were wrapped, entwined around her ankles, and she kicked them off desperately- the sudden surge of panic making her movements clumsy.

Scrambling to the phone as fast as she could, still in the clammy, post-vision shock that her dreams had left her in, she attempted to call Tony. She misdialed several times, her fingers shaking so badly she could only just hold the phone.

Renard- after calming down enough to actually punch the number in- was greeted by a P.A, and then a drowsy Pepper Pots, and then (finally) a befuddled Anthony Stark.

"Renard?"

"Unfortunately, yes- and I hate to be a bother," she replied, running a still-unsteady hand through her sweat-dampened curls. "But your security needs an update."

"Of course it does," Tony grumbled, voice still thick with sleep. "And by when should we have this done?"

"Preferably before my next shift."


	10. Nine months, 28 days before incident

**Nine months, twenty eight days before incident:**

**Location: Earth, U.S.A, Midtown: Manhattan, Stark tower floor zero.**

**Subjects involved: Renard, Anthony Stark, Loki- S.H.E.I.L.D security team 3.0**

There must have been at least twenty different people there- not including Tony, Renard and Loki, that is.

Every corner of the fish bowl was filled with S.H.E.I.L.D personel- some could be identified by their equptment as technicians, some by their weapons as extra guards, and some were there (or so it seemed), for the sole purpose of making it more crowded.

"This is a bloody circus," she muttered to Tony, who grunted in agreement whilst doing his part and meticulously studying the infra red.

Taking that as enough socializing for one day, she went back to staring at Loki, hand at her hip, ready to reach for her gun the next time he so much as blinked.

Luckily for him, he didn't seem inclined to blink- or inhale, or exhale, or make any kind of movement at all, actually. He was sitting on the bench, being watched through the glass by a line-up of tree-sized men, armed with everything from handguns to Uzis.

(He seemed _oddly_ okay with it.)

A dazed, startled look masked his features.

His fists were clenched so tightly that his knuckles had turned a pale, bloodless white.

She couldn't tell if he were shocked or enraged through the vacant haze that held him, but- though she knew she could take him down a million different ways, most of them effortless- she was glad she wasn't in the cage with him.

The sound of a blow torch interrupted her train of thought, and she glanced sideways to a brilliant shower of sparks.

"Is that safe?"

"Noup," Tony replied easily, focus still on the task at hand.

A team of two were positioned in front of the door, slowly cutting open a wide rectangular section- peeling it back and peering in. She couldn't tell what they found, through the mass of people that stood between them, but a startled murmur rose from the crowd.

Loki's expression didn't much change, but he became even paler as a series of unrecognizably bent up metal pieces clattered to the floor.

The colective gaze of the hoard quickly swivled from Loki to Renard and back, eventually settling on her.

Gosebumps pricked her flesh as she felt the stares boring into the side of her face, the faces from which they emanated fearfully-impressed.

She swallowed, trying to ignore them, keeping her eyes set on Loki. Unfortunately, Loki- apparently snapping out of his initial shock and noticing the general direction in which everyone was looking- had just turned to her with the same sort of stare, his more confused than anything else. Heat filled her cheeks, and she thanked God that her skin, dark as it was, effectively hid the surely-blazing blush that she felt in them.

"Not bad," Tony decided, raising his eyebrows at her.

"Worth getting up at two AM?" She inquired, disguising her discomfort with flippancy.

"I wouldn't go that far," he snorted easily, casting her a look of understanding.

"Tough crowd."

Her fingers tapped silently into the space above her holster, nervously drumming a pattern into her side- the only visible sign of her distress.

(Loki's eyes caught the movement, flickering from her face to her hand, noting the potential tell and tucking it away for later examination.)

"How quickly can it be repaired?" Renard demanded, trying to distract everyone from their newfound hobby of gawking at her.

"Minutes," the technician who had manned the blow torch informed her. "We brought all the parts matching your description in advance."

"What about the rest of the cameras?"

"That will take a while," his partner admitted reluctantly. "Inegrating them into the grid takes a lot longer than just setting them up does- and we still have a lot of cameras left to set up, actually."

"Can you give me an estimate?" Tony inquired, eyes darting to the clock on the monitor.

The man shrugged.

"For the ones in here, not long- maybe by Monday. For the motion sensors in the hall, a lot longer. Maybe not until next month."

Tony bit his lip.

"S.H.E.I.L.D is picking up the tab for this, right?"

Renard rolled her eyes at that, though the motion was lost behind her shades.

"You'll have to ask Agent Hill about that," Blow-torch guy jumped back in. "We're just the clean-up crew."

Tony sighed, good humor running low so early in the morning.

"Relax," Renard tried to cheer him up. "Worse case scenario, you're demoted to billionaire."

"Meh," Tony gunted back, apparently over it.

Eventually, the crowd dwindled- after the door was pasted back together (and by pasted, she means soldered) and all four cameras had been set up (one per corner of the room), only one or two remained, installing the sensors on the other side of the main door.

The feeling of being watched, however, didn't leave with the cluster of people.

"Stop it."

"Or what?" Loki countered, exsperession grim and foreboding.

_Or I'll be forced to stare back, and it will become a contest, _she thought, but said simply:

"Just stop."

Unsurprisingly, he didn't- acidic glare only intensifying with time.

"Seriously, bugger off!"

Agan, he disregarded her, eyes searching.

"You told them." He said simply, in equal parts a question and an accusation.

"Don't sound so surprised- it's sort of what they pay me for." Her tone was paper thin and stiff, temper carefully in check.

"How did you know?" He demanded, seething, words hissing from bared teeth.

Renard hesitated, mouth open, the words 'I saw it' on her lips. She stopped herself just in time, eyes wide at her own stupidity, and instead stuttered somthing along the lines of 'none ya'.

Loki stood up and stalked to the glass, glowering venomously at her.

"I repeat- how. Did. You. _Know_?"

She swallowed again, licking her lips. _Lie_, a voice in the back of her head whispered desperately, and she opened her mouth to do just that.

_And yet_.

A face filled with fury stared her down, gaze sharp, shining and hypnotic like the eyes of a snake- the king of lies, daring her to even try.

She hesitated again. Because on one hand, the less Loki knew, the better. While she didn't see how he could use the knowledge of her so-called gifts against her, there was the distinct possibility that that was because- dark side as she had once been- she honestly didn't know how to _think_ like a bad guy.

It was a far safer bet to keep him in the dark

On the other hand, though, a niggling voice pressed... how many times, during their breif-but-frequent squabbles, had he proclaimed himself above her? How many times had he mocked and criticized her, without knowing what she was capable of?

Without even, in the slightest, knowing _her_?

Renard realized with sudden clarity that this- this _vengeful, hurt_ feeling- was the human emotion of spite.

She sucked in a fast gasp of air.

_When did that happen?_

"Can I ask you somthing?" She countered finally, needing somthing to distract her from the sudden onset of panic. Her tone was level, if not unaffected.

Loki's eyes hardened at the misdirection, like magma cooling into rock, and breathed deeply. He struggled to remain in control, swallowing his wit and biting back the insults balanced on the tip of his tongue. He would have loved to shred her, to strip her down to some tiny, shivering thing he could step on and grind into the dust- but no.

Breath gusted back out of the thin, hard line of his lips, audible probably to the technicians still in the hall.

"Can I stop you?"

Renard, intentionally misconstrewing that as assent, collected herself and began.

"Why do you even want out so badly?"

His eyes, which had shut as he tried to calm himself, snapped back open. He looked at her as if she were a moron, but didn't verbally answer- apparently letting his withering look speak for itself.

"No, really- why?" Renard demanded, tone for once neither disapproving nor harsh. "What have you got to go back to?"

The sincerity of the inquiry doubled its impact.

"Home," he replied without having to think.

It was her turn to look at him oddly.

"Pardon if I've been misinformed, but last I checked, there was a _planet-full of people who hate you_, a gag-order on your magic, and an out-of-order bridge between you and your home. Isn't that goal a bit on the wildly unrealistic side?"

She nodded to the puckered outlines of a square, now marring the other wise smooth surface of the door.

"Granted, you did have enough juice to do that- but it was rather _killing_ you, was it not?"

Loki's face went blank, and for a moment he was to shocked to glare.

"_How_ did you know _that_?"

Renard wanted to swallow her tongue.

"Never mind," she said quickly, turning away and trying desperately to look busy.


	11. Nine months, 27 days before incident

**Nine months, twenty seven days before incident:**

**Location: Earth, U.S.A, Midtown: Manhattan: Avenue Appartments, floor three, room 218.**

**Subjects involved: Renard, Loki, Nina Remerez,**

_As far as he had been able to tell, humans had slowly replaced any affinity they might once have had for sorcery with one for technology, until- like an unneeded appendage, or a resessive gene- they'd lost it._

_Considering the sheer populace of Midguard, he wouldn't have been surprised if a few still retained some... lingering, sensitivity._

_But only a few- a handfull out of billions._

_And those few- he assumed- would have been almost childishly inept._

_S.H.E.I.L.D was resourceful, he'd learned that lesson all to well- but that they had managed to find a human woman, well enough versed in magic and it's use that she posed a veritable threat to _himself...

_Added to the fact that despite her clear ability, he'd felt no magic in her, the thought rankled, but he shook it off._

_Regardless of how his adversaries had managed it, they had: the only thing prelevant now was how he would deal with the obstacle she presented._

_And he knew of only one way._

Renard awoke early in the morning, writhing in some of the worst pain she'd ever felt.

Oversized t-shirt pasted to her with sweat, legs tangled in her blankets, head pounding hotly, it was nothing short of agony.

Her brain felt as if it had been caught in an ever constricting net of razor wire, and she opened her eyes and saw the world in double: quaking, colorful mirages that circled and disoriented her to (and past) the point of sickness.

The trip from her blanket pile to the bathroom was harrowing, and didn't improve upon arrival- it was a good thing she'd pulled her hair back into a braid to sleep, because everything she'd eaten since 1901 came spilling out.

(Worse still was the after-taste, which made her want to start retching all over again.)

Bogged down under a cloud of dizziness, Renard managed to wash her mouth out and then proceeded to stagger out the front door and into the car.

She greeted her neighbor with a grimace-smile.

"What happened to you?" The elf-like woman demanded in surprise, still dressed in her pajamas.

"Life," Renard lied, grasping her hands in front of her as if praying. "Aspirin, kind lady?"

"I'm not sure I have enough," she stated skeptically, bemused, then took pity and went to get aspirin.

Renard leaned carefully on the doorframe, letting it take her weight, trying to think straight. The requested pain-reliever was granted with expediency, several pills shaken into her trembling palm. It was embarrassing, how many she had to take to feel even the slightest bit better, but the woman took the deduction on her medicine cabinet with good-humor.

"Did you go out on a binge?"

"I don't look quite that bad, do I?"

"You actually look worse." The tiny, grey-haired woman grinned at her. "I was going to follow that with 'and then get hit by a truck'."

Renard groaned, running a hand through her hair and pushing off the frame, her sense of equilibrium hardly restored.

"Great," she grumbled, feeling her way along the wall and slowly heading back into her own apartment. A shower, clean clothes and a feast of pop-tarts later, she felt only marginally better, and when it came time to leave, she seriously considered not going.

Nina greeted her with a surprised appraisal.

"What happened to you?" She demanded, less sympathetic than her neighbor had been, and far more inclined to find it hilarious.

Renard just shook her head, blowing a curl she hadn't had the gumption to tame out of her face.

Ian greeted her in much the same manner, and, all patience down the drain, received an irritable grunt for his efforts.

The maze was a veritable nightmare to navigate, and doing so in no way improved her mood. Well as she had learned its layout, she was forced to backtrack several times, eventually breaking down and reaching inside her aching head for directions.

The edge of a wall that she could swear wasn't there the day before caught her in the shoulder, and she hissed angrily at it.

Painfully intense nausea gripped her as she once again turned her eye inward, and receded only slightly when she ceased and continued onward- this time in the correct direction.

_She was going to kill Loki when she saw him._

Behind her eyes, an ineffective blockade between herself and her visions, a cage of thread had been erected.

Glowing green, it dripped venom and blood as it cut into her: although it wasn't particularly difficult to see between the gaps, and the spell ultimately failed to blind her, it succeeded in hurting like Hell.

Apparently, she wasn't as good at keeping secrets as she thought she was.

Red tinted her vision.

Anger on top of pain clouded her thoughts. The old urge- to exterminate, to purge, to drive him so far into the ground that he'd never get back up- took hold of her once more. She balled up her fists and sped up her step- ignoring the slight sting as her nails dug into her palms.

Drawing near to her destination and seeing light, Renard had to pause to collect herself.

_Everything_ hurt.

A bone-deep, borderline indescribable pain radiated from her head, down her spine, infecting every part of her. A gust of breath hissed between her lips as she tried to think through the violent haze.

_...Her head..._

Shaking her head, realizing she'd be even later if she couldn't get herself under controll, Renard crossed the short space left, into the flickering glow of fluorescent light.

Loki watched her enter with rapt attention, and she took guilty satisfaction in the fact that if anyone looked worse than she did, it was him.

Grey-skinned, eyes dull, he watched her through his own haze- one of palpable exhaustion.

"Renard," he greeted her, voice smug yet breathless.

She didnt reply, but sat down and, carefully, began tugging at the strands that confined her.

"That's rather useless, you know."

"Arogance doesn't look good on you, little god," she shot him an irritated look, index fingers pressed into her temples, supporting the weight of her head. "Contrary to what you clearly believe, you are not the smartest man to ever grace this earth."

"Oh?" He coughed and laughed simultaneously. "And do you think yourself smarter?"

"For all you know, I am." Renard snapped, pressing her fingers harder into her temples.

"I sincerely _doubt_ that, Miss Renard."

She removed her fingers to crack her knuckles, then her neck.

"Just Renard."

He snorted but didn't offer a reply, and Renard didn't fish for one.

_She had better things to do._

The net of Loki's magic, despite the toll it had clearly taken on him to create, was top of the line.

If she were using sorcery, as he had clearly assumed her to be, it would probably have worked perfectly. But she was not, and as it was, her visions were the only mental function she could accurately preform.

Minutes passed in a fog of hurt, as she tried everything to get it off- relaxing, gently prodding at the net, even going so far as to rip at it ferociously, but nothing worked.

Like electrified barbed wire, it repelled her, utterly unyielding.

(Loki's amusement grew at her failed efforts.)

Griting her teeth at the sound of laughter, Renard focused harder.

She mapped out the net with phantom fingers, studying its grid-like patern and trying to find a soft spot.

She wasn't entirely sure it had one, but saw few other escape routes, short of paying her doctor a particularly interesting visit.

"I wouldn't keep prying at it if I were you- it will only hurt worse." His voice was suddenly behind her.

She managed not to jump at the shock of it, but froze (which now that she thinks about it, is a terrible response to danger. _Fight? Flight? No thanks, I'll just sit here, being a retard.)_

"And if I were you," she spat, casting an angry look to the hologram beside her. "I would stop expending so much energy on magic for the use of menial tasks."

"Oh, but this isn't menial- forgive the intrusion," he smiled at her, eyes unusually bright- the look of a man unhinged. "But I'm afraid I simply must see this up close."

A startled laugh bubbled up, and Loki's smile flickered.

"You find somthing humorous?"

"Funny," she corrected him. "I find somthing funny."

Magic, she'd often found, was fickle.

A force to be reckoned with, certainly, but one controllable only to a point, and beyond that point highly unpredictable.

And as one of those phantom fingers found what it was looking for, she realized that Loki's magic was no exception, strong as it was.

"And what is that, prey tell?"

Her lips twitched, like she was fighting a smile of her own.

The double's lips curled back, teeth bared, ready to cut her down for her insolence.

She cut him off.

"You're so smart, Loki." More laughter left her, like hot air being let out of a balloon. "But you're an _idiot_, too."

She pulled at a string, tugging it loose from the rest, and with easy movements, began to unravel the net.

"No," Loki snarled, all humor lost, hands balling into fists.

"Yes," Renard replied, fingers shaking as they cut into the side of her head, and a stream of red ran down into to the crook of her thumb.

"Don't you _dare_."

"What choice have you left me?" Her voice shook, whether from suppressed pain or laughter, he couldn't tell.

One by one, every last emerald strand fell away- and with them, the pain.

Loki felt it.

"I repeat, Loki," Renard said, climbing to her feet, only slightly unbalanced, blood drying. "Arrogance doesn't look good on you."


	12. Nine months, 26 days before incident

**Nine months, twenty six days before incident**

**Location: Earth, U.S.A, Midtown: Manhattan: Stark Tower, floor zero.**

**Subjects involved: Renard, Loki, Nina Remerez, Ian Cassidy**

Her jaw and chin were sharply angled- her lips, a perfect double curve, to wide to suit them.

There were dots- beauty marks, barely visible against the dark of her complexion- one at the corner of her mouth, one just above the arch of her eyebrow.

Other than her above-average height and habit of waring protective eye-ware indoors, nothing about her apearance was particularly outstanding. That he could see, she bore no distinguishing marks: no visible tattoos, scars, or piercings of any sort. _Anatomically_, at least, she appeared to be a normal Midguardian.

Except she couldn't have been- not purely, at least. Loki had forged that spell like a steel trap- it would have presented a harrowing challenge to even an Asguardian sorcerer.

A _skilled_ Asguardian sorcerer.

And somewhat embarrisingly, it had not been enough.

From the toll it had taken on him alone, he would have expected it to have been a blot on her forever more.

Like an open wound that never quite healed, in a constant, ever-worsening state of rot, he had expected her to weather the pain untill it broke her. And then, crushed senseless under the weight of her agony, she would have done anything to get out from under it.

It was a weak plan z- meant more to take up his time, to give him somthing to do, than to actually get him out.

(The more likely outcome being that she would go to her superiors, be removed from duty, replacd, and eventually- all hope for a cure having been exhausted- euthanized.)

With nowhere else to channel his frustration, he had used up the last of what little magic he had managed to store, and gone far out of his way to make sure that no simple woman- no mere _human- _could have been able to break it. And yet she had managed so much more than just that. She had undone it completely, despite the clear pain it had caused her to do so.

He was forced to reevaluate the situation, and concluded- reluctantly- that he must have underestimated her.

She had, in essence, _outsmarted_ him.

"Renard."

She didn't reply, not shockingly- her efforts to avoid inappropriate conversation had been tripled, perhaps quadrupled since his failed attempt at coercion, and she had thus far managed to hold her tongue in his presence.

It was only a matter of time, though.

Her temper, in tangent with her evident, admitably justified dislike of him would compell her to speach eventually.

"_Renard_."

"Hmmm?" The subject of his frustraitation replied, iritation getting the better of her,head snapping up from whatever it was she was working on.

Loki glanced at her, then shook his head- a dismissive gesture.

Renard returned to her game, and her nose crinkled as she scowled.

"How do you cheat at tic-tac-toe?" She demanded, replying to some unheard insinuation.

Almost unconsciously, she pressed her finger to her earpiece, trying to focus. Her gaze flickerd from the napkin she was playing on to the haughty, bedraggled Norse god behind the glass.

Loki did the same, if more discretely, and much more thoroughly.

Whatever she was- however she had managed it- he had tried burning her out.

It had been made abundantly clear that he couldn't get past her by means of force.

_It was time for a different kind of trickery._

"Renard."

"_What_?" She snapped, temper flaring brightly to life.

He said her name again, for the third time, tone almost experimental- as if he were testing the sound of it.

He shook his head in mock-irritation.

"I require nothing. It has merely come to my attention that you have a... _peculiar_ title."

"No I don't." Renard replied distractedly, sounding affronted.

Loki shrugged passively, seeming to have lost interest- hoping she took the bait.

Renard eyes flicked upwards and she frowned at him for a while, scrutiny in her expression.

_What is he playing at?_

_"Let's just do something else_," Nina negotiated on the other end of the earpiece, trying to play the peacekeeper.

"_Like what_?" Ian demanded, voice dull with boredom. "_Not another round of twenty questions- I know way more about you people than I want to as it is_."

_"The feeling is mutual, we assure you."_

"It isn't unusual," Renard finally snapped, tuning out the debate ensuing on the other end of the line.

Loki fought a smirk and didn't quite win, turning back over and facing her.

"But it is," he informed her, studying her with an apraising exsperession. "I have never known another Renard- so the name is at least _unique_."

She blinked at him.

"Maybe you need to get out more."

It was Loki's turn to scowl.

_Difficult woman._

"Your _endearing_ sarcasm aside, I stand by my previous observation."

"Your previous observation is incorrect," she replied stonily. "Because 'Renard' is a fairly common last name."

"Last name?"

"Surname," she clarified, expression then morphing from flat to disbelieving. "What, you thought it was my _first_ name?"

"I can assume, then, that it is not?"

_Keep talking._

"Of course not," she said as if it were obvious.

Loki smiled, and the movement was shaky.

"Might I ask what your name is?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"Curiosity." He shrugged with feigned innocence, eyes narrowed, searching.

"My name is Renard." She replied stubbornly.

"The name by which you are regularly called, though?" Loki badgered, and Renard bit her cheek, breathing deeply, unsure how long to allow him his questions.

"The name by which I'm regularly called _is_ Renard."

"Interesting. May I inquire as to why?"

"Because my first name-" Renard said slowly, deciding to play along and see where he was going with it, "-actually _is_ odd."

"Hmmm," Loki hummed carefully, studying her from his place, sitting cross legged on his bed. "I assume, judging from how thuroughly you've avioded the subject, you won't be telling me your first name."

"Last I checked, we aren't on a first name basis."

Loki saw a window of oppertuinity opening up and went for it, instinctively.

"Oh? Would that be inappropriate?" He baited her, gambling.

"Highly." She agreed tightly, patience running thin.

(Loki knew little of Renard. But her defining character trait thus far was a pig headed unwillingness to lose an argument.)

"Then why," Loki continued with a grin that said he had her exactly where he wanted her, "don't you call me by my surname?"

Renard almost bit through her tongue.

Loki resisted the urge to laugh.

"That's different."

"I fail to see how." Loki raised a challenging eyebrow at her.

"I hate to break it to you, sunshine, but I don't know what your surname _is_." She informed him sourly, eyebrows pinched.

Loki's eyebrows shot up.

He didn't know how to respond, for a minute.

"Well then." He decided eventually, tone condescending. "I suppose we are even."

He turned back over, signalling a clear end to the conversation, leaving Renard mildly unsatisfied.

She had been geared up for a fight.

"Sort of." She agreed quietly, unwilling to let him have the last word.


	13. Nine months, 25 days before incident

**Nine months, twenty five days before incident**

**Location: Earth, U.S.A, Midtown: Manhattan: Stark Tower, floor zero.**

**Subjects involved: Renard, Loki, Nina Remerez, Ian Cassidy**

There were no games left.

_None_.

Everything that could be played had been played, over and over, untill they had gotten sick of it.

"What about War-"

"_No_," Renard vetoed emphatically, scowling.

"More Go-Fish?"

"_Hell_ no," Ian snapped, just as grouchy.

"Well excuse me for helping," Nina said, sounding hurt.

Renard sighed, louder than she meant to, and Loki rolled his eyes and shot her a look- one which she returned with vigor.

Their conversation from the day before was still bothering her, mainly because she didn't know why he'd decided to initiate it- or why she had answered.

"We could just talk," She suggested, for lack of anything better to do.

Silence was the only reply, and she realized Ian and Nina had opened a private channel over which to bicker.

"Or not."

She clenched her fists, and then very slowly uncurled them, keeping her muscles locked and exhaling.

It hadn't been a great day, thus far.

Maddison had called, suggesting they do somthing.

Gabe had called, saying she needed to meet her and Raffi because somthing had come up on the Veronica front.

Nina was showing an increasing interest in 'hanging out' outside of work.

And Ian, the poor stupid sap, had asked her out.

("Is it because I'm white?"

"Of course not- it's because you are an idiot.")

It had been sweet, of course, and he had taken the blunt rejection in stride, but honestly- if there were ever a woman who shouldn't date, it was Renard.

Frustration gripped her.

It wasn't that she didn't want to- it just simply wasn't a good idea, between her lifestyle, her terrible taste, and the life-or-death situations that she often found herself in. Speaking of those, Renard bit at the inside of her cheek, forcefully relocating her attention to a less emotionally turbulent topic.

_Games_, she reminded herself. _Think of one_.

All the basics were out; they'd been done to death.

Rock-paper-scissors was impossible, seeing as the temptation to cheat had long since proven to much for Ian.

Ditto most everything, actually.

Renard racked her brain for somthing new, or maybe somthing so old she hadn't thought of it in ages.

Suddenly, a flash of red and white caught her eye.

Her gaze doubled back to the corner of the room and landed on the wastebasket there.

As it had been for since before she'd gotten her job, it was almost overflowing.

Because the fishbowl was like a cosmic bottleneck- meaning little got in, and nothing got out- food and janitorial services were impossibly slow.

(Which reminded her- Nina actually sort of sucked:

Getting sustanance of any form required going through channels- on a good day, such an endeavor would prodeed as follows: Nina, Renard and Ian would decide what they wanted. Nina- being the elavator guard, and therefor on the first floor- would tell the desk clerk what their orders were, who would tell her P.A., who would scramble to get everything they wanted. It worked fine, until recently, when- _God help them_- Nina had become a fan -read:addict- of Five Guys. Because S.H.E.I.L.D picked up the tabs for their meals -as a security measure- and would only pay for so much, -read: no desert, no 'extra large', no super-sizing, and no second helpings- Nina's anility to get all the food she wanted was limited. And because her newfound apetite wouldn't be satisfied with one helping of fries, she had actually begun altering Ian and Renard's orders so that she could _scavenge_ them.

They had all spent the last week or so living on burgers and hot dogs, _sans_ fries.)

Because of this, the bin was more than at capacity- full of empty styrofoam cups and bags.

_Identical_ empty cups and bags, Renard realized belatedly, and an idea struck.

"_What_ are you _doing_?" Loki demanded, disgusted, as she rolled her chair over to it and started digging.

"Entertaining myself," she replied easily as she began to sift.

Bags and old wrappers were separated from cups and shoved to the very bottom.

She removed the lids from them and segrigated the clean ones (by which she means the reasonably-not-dirty, probably-just-had-water-in-them ones) from ones with congealed soda around the bottom rim.

Left with only four, she selected the three best of those and rolled back to the console with them.

"That is disgusting," Loki grimaced, eyeing the cups but leaning forward with obvious interest.

"Then don't watch," she said, flipping the cups over and trying to find a quarter or somthing.

She couldn't find one, but eventually had the bright idea to use one her earrings- the pair being two small, plain silver studs she usually didn't even bother to wear.

She checked her earpiece, but Nina and Ian were still off arguing.

Renard shrugged it off, and placed the earring under the middle cup.

"_Ah_," Loki made a noise of understanding, apparently less disturbed once he realized she actually had a reason for digging through the trash. "A game."

Renard grunted her confirmation, not wanting to be distracted or coerced into another conversation, as she was afraid he might attempt.

Without any pretense of a pattern, she started moving the cups around in small circles, and continued until she herself had no idea where it was.

"The third." Loki decided.

Renard's head snapped up.

"Of what?" She asked

Loki huffed and rolled his eyes at her again, before explaining.

"It is under the third cup."

Renard frowned, and bit her tongue to keep herself from disagreeing out of spite. She lifted the cup he'd singled out very slowly, eyes narrowed in suspicion, like somthing was going to pop out and bite her. She almost wished somthing had, because Loki was right- she was greeted by one tiny silver stud.

She opened her mouth, confusion knitting her brow, but stopped when she caught his eye.

He was fighting a rather malicious-looking grin.

Renard pursed her lips and shook her head, attention switching back to the game.

Again, without any sort of plan, she started sliding the styrofoam vessels around, this time taking several minutes.

It was a new distraction, and one that she greatly apritiated, but she came back to the same roadblock she always snagged on: how to play it over the phone.

She could verbally tell them in what direction she was moving them, but they'd probably need a visual accompaniment just to keep up- and as funny as it was to picture Nina, trying to play the shell game with no table in Starks waiting room, it would draw attention to her, and it wasn't worth the risk.

"Second cup," Loki's voice interupted her train of thought yet again.

He was right, and the next time he spoke, she ignored him, continuing to move the cups without checking to see if he was right.

"Third cup, again." He informed her as soon as she paused.

_Don't look_, she commanded herself, and started again.

This went on for awhile.

Renard couldn't tell if he was trying to irritate her, or just to entertain himself, but just in case, she continued to not-look.

As both her irritation and her curiosity mounted, it became difficult.

Her resolve collapsed the next time he spoke.

"First cup."

Not pausing long enough to change her mind, Renard quickly tipped said cup over- glowering when he was once again right.

"Would you stop that?" She snapped.

"Stop winning?" He asked, arching a brow at her.

"_Yes_, please!"

At that, Loki's expression morphed from smug to incredulous, and he laughed.

Renard started backtracking.

"I mean- _no_. We aren't playing. Together. _We aren't playing together_."

He continued laughing, and, curiosity outweighing her embarrassment, Renard stopped trying to save face.

"How are you even _doing_ that?" She demanded, exasperated. "Is it magic? Because if it's magic, you're cheating, and I win by default."

Loki sobered up enough to respond, but only just.

"I would not waste what magic I have so liberally on a game, Renard- it is the most basic of arithmetic."

"It is not!" Renard snapped, crossing her arms. "If it were basic, I could do it! And I can't, so you're lying."

Loki was still chuckling (which made her angry) and pretended to wipe a tear from his eye before replying (or maybe he actually _was_ wiping a tear from his eye- he had found her outburst oddly humorous).

"Miss Renard, if I were lying, you would have not an inkling of it. Perhaps you simply are not paying enough attention."

Renard (rather than admitting he might've been on to something) resisted the impulse to sneer and instead bagan setting up the cups once more.

"Cup two," Loki said as Renard decided it was cup three.

"No," she said, tone bordering on the victorious, "Its not."

She lifted cup three, and fell silent when there was nothing under it.

"Cup two," Loki repeated, amusement in his voice.

Renard- even slower than before- lifted cup two.

She smiled triumphantly when there was nothing under it, either.

"Ha," she grinned at him, forgetting for a second how thoroughly she detested the man, and her mega-watt smile startled him for a moment.

"You were wrong as well," he defended himself, sounding grumpy and surprised.

"Who cares?" Renard smiled even wider, stacking the cups and putting her earring back on. "You were wrong-er."


	14. Nine months, 23 days before incident

**Nine months, twenty three days before incident**

**Location: Earth, U.S.A, Midtown: Manhattan: Cloverfeild Theraputic Center , ward three, room 322/ Stark Tower, floor zero.**

**Subject(s) involved: Renard, Gabriel, Craig Taylor, Loki**

Renard brought her fist down of the crown of the giant's head, and he grunted, but didn't get off of her.

"Hit him harder!" Gabe shouted from the other end of the room, hands cupped around her mouth.

"_Wow_!" Renard shout/screamed as he rammed her harder into the wall. "I wish_ I_ had thought of that!"

Her hand was locked around his fist, in which a jagged piece of wall trim was clutched.

She twisted it, and he dropped the shard, but didn't let go. Renard grunted and managed to slip from between her adversary and the wall, hitting the ground and sweeping his feet out from under him. He landed almost on top of her, and they rolled awkwardly, in a tangled pile of limbs, until Renard managed to pin him. Acting on a calculated guess, she brought her elbow down on the back of his shoulder, and was rewarded with an angry pop sound.

Craig groaned painfully, and paused his effeorts to squish her.

Reaching across his chest to clutch his shoulder- which apeared to be severely dislocated-he stopped struggling, and Renard sighed gratefully, climbing off of him.

"Demon," he spat at her, and Renard rolled her eyes. Then, head jerking sharply to the side, she spat a pinkish mix of blood and saliva.

"_Ew_," Gabe fussed.

Renard shrugged dismissively, before turning back and aiming a bone-splitting kick directly at the crazy man's head.

He hit the ground, curling feebly into himself and rocking.

"Stop it," he snarled, glaring at her through tears.

"Gladly," Renard replied, patting him on the head and knocking him back over as she limped past.

Running dangerously low on patience, she grabbed Gabe by the arm and hauled her out of the wrecked room.

"You should have waited for me," Gabe tried ineffectively to chastise her, and Renard grunted impatiently, practically dragging the smaller woman down the hall and into the elevator.

"You were late."

"No,_ I_ was on time. _You_ decided to act early."

"Either way." Renard snapped, pressing the button for the ground level floor and then crossing her arms, glaring directly ahead.

"Renard," Gabe groused. "You shouldn't have gone ahead- you didn't have permission."

Renard grit her teeth at that.

"The mission was a success- we've verified Craig Taylor hasn't come in to contact with Veronica."

"You aren't listening to me, little sister- the success of the mission isn't the point."

"Then what is the point?" Renard demanded, turning to face Gabe and staring her down.

"I'd rather the mission be carried out correctly and fail than to succede through nefarious means.

"'Nefarious means'?" Renard rounded on Gabe. "I was two minutes early. How does that constitute 'nefarious means'?"

"You didn't wait for the okay."

"I knew you were going to give me the okay, though- and if I had been a second later, that bit of wood would have been in his neck."

"You broke rank, Renard- and you _know_ why we don't do that."

"Yes I do, Gabe- I've heard the devine pep-talk before."

The elevator stopped, but Gabe stopped the doors from opening and turned to Renard, the favor of a loving sibling overshadowed by the wrath of a superior.

"_You do not determine the object of a mission. You do not proceed without permission. You do not deviate from your orders. And you do not ignore your superior officer for three consecutive days when she says you need to meet_. What's gotten into you?"

Renard slipped past her and didn't respond.

"Renard!" Gabe shouted, and the desk clerk shot her a nervous look.

"We can talk later!" Renard snarled over her shoulder, pushing through the main entrance. "_I_ have _work."_

It hurt to realize it, but as she lay bundled up in her blankets on the floor that night, it occurred to her that Gabe wasn't actually wrong.

Renard's phone had been blowing up with messages for _days_, and she hadn't answered any of them.

(Said messages told her nothing of what had everyone so on edge, and consisted of Gabe demanding that her, Renard and Raffi meet ASAP.)

She didn't have any valid reason not to, really- she wasn't even actively avoiding the confrontation.

It was just that she never seemed to have a moment to actually call her back.

Renard's cover as a normal human being (or really, just a human being) took more care than she usually provided, and as of late, it seemed to require even more.

Madison wanted to text- she'd call, making tentative, phantom plans, and almost exclusively including Renard in them. She'd complain about the job search, her ex, and inquire- cautiously- as to what Renard was doing, where she worked, when she was available, and generally just take up her time with idle chat.

Nina- with whom Renard had never anticipated such a problem- kept trying to girl-talk every time one of their male compatriots wasn't listening.

Stark had e-mailed her about some sort of new security measure, apparently sending the same message to the night guard.

The more she thought about it, the more it botherd her, and when she woke up the following morning from the least restful sleep she'd ever had, Renard was forced to wonder why everyone in her life suddenly needed her attention.

She realized, by the time she got to the fishbowl, that there was one more person on the long list of people she just didn't understand.

One she hadn't even realized was bothering her until he kicked it up a notch.

"What are you doing?" Loki demanded, sounding amused.

"Eating," Renard snapped back, stabbing at her noodles for the the millionth time, no longer trying to pick them up so much as to kill them.

"That does _not_ look like eating," Loki replied skeptically, eyes glued to her then misshapen take-out box.

"Shut up, I'm concentrating." Renard paused her malicious attack to once more attempt to scoop up some food.

She got one long noodle almost to her mouth before it landed- _intentionally_- on the floor, falling through the tiny gap between her legs and hitting the tile.

Renard released a sound not unlike the death-throws of a cat and slammed the take-out box back onto the console, simultaneously pushing her chair backwards.

Momentum carried her several feet back, and as she rolled, she slouched back, arms crossed petulantly. She glared at the box in that position for several minutes, trying to think of a punishment suitable for it.

Loki cocked his head at her childish antics, having had little trouble figuring out the odd utensils himself.

Apparently sensing his train of thought, Renard's gaze shifted from her accursed Chinese food to his.

Long, pale fingers held the chopsticks steady, a knot of noodle pinched securely between them. His box had no holes, and retained its shaped.

Renard scowled, realizing that he was better than she was at- of all things- _eating_.

"Why do you find these," Loki clicked his chopsticks at her. "So difficult to handle?"

"Because they're ridiculous!" Renard snarled, throwing her hands up and gesturing wildly. "Who in Gods name thought that this was a good idea?"

He shrugged, not bothering to try and answer that.

"They offer me no particular resistance."

Renard pursed her lips, then scoffed.

"Oh yeah? You- chopsticks. Me- spoon. Bowl of soup. Nine o'clock. Let's just see who gets to the bottom first."

Loki snorted at her, and wondered how, exactly, this woman had ever been trusted in a position of relative power.

Just to spite her, he plucked up another wad of noodle, exaggerating the ease of it.

"Shut up," Renard repeated, but there was a reluctant undertone of humor in her voice.

Loki's mouth turned upwards at that- not a grin, but a small, familiar sort of smile.

Renard froze.

Loki, seeming to notice there was something wrong, frowned at her.

Neither of them said anything for a moment, and then Renard sighed.

"What are you playing at?" She demanded eventually, not malicious but genuinely confused.

Loki knew what she meant, but didn't answer, instead studying his food for a minute.

Renard sighed again.

Why did every relationship she had have to be complicated?

She supposed it made sense that Nina and Maddison would want to spend time together. She had known Nina for months, and Maddison for almost that long.

Stark was her boss, and Ian was- she supposed- a friend.

So they had excuses, to.

But her family life- with Gabe specifically- was never simple. And now even Loki- with whom she shouldn't even have had a relationship, antagonistic or otherwise- was causing her trouble.

She realized, belatedly, that they had talked everyday that week- and several times the week before that.

"Why are you talking to me?" She continued, at a loss.

Loki took another minute to respond.

"You've made it clear," he tried, "that other forms of... _entertainment, _will not be tolerated."

It didn't register, at first, as to what type of entertainment he was referring.

"You've got a book," she suggested, for lack of anything else of substance to say.

Loki huffed at her, blowing a long, dark strand of hair out of his face.

"I have finished it."

Renard's eyebrows shot up.

"Really?"

"No," he drawled sarcastically.

She narrowed her eyes skeptically.

"What happened to Romeo?"

"He died."

"What happened to Desdemona?"

"She died."

"What happened to Macbeth and his wife?"

"They _both_ died."

"Alright, so you've read the book- we still shouldn't be talking."

"Renard," Loki snapped. "What _else_ am I meant to do?"

_Rot_, she wanted to say, but didn't see that comment helping the situation.

Failing that, she couldn't think of a reply.

She leaned back, considering.

All things considered, boredom was a plausible explanation- though she didn't doubt for a second that he had ulterior motives- namely _escape_.

But loathe as she was to admit it, he had a point- what else _was_ he meant to do?

On one hand, she had little- scratch that- _no _sympathy for his situation. He had earned far worse than a little loneliness (which to the best of her knowledge, had never killed anyone).

On the other hand, though... even common inmates were allowed certain small pleasures.

Television.

Books.

(_Visitors_, she was tempted to add, but shied away from that particular territory.)

Not because they deserved them- not necessarily even because their jailers had pity on them- but because the only thing more dangerous than a criminal mind was an _unoccupied_ criminal mind.

And if he was using her- again, in the interest of eventual escape- dangerous as playing along might be... how much might he reveal about _himself_, in trying to ferret information out of her?

There was no telling, and besides that, she had an advantage: it was her perogative to _stop_, if she felt she had given somthing important away- she had nothing to lose in severing any so called ties with him. He, on the other hand, had _everything_ to lose- and that could make him desperate.

"Alright," Renard said slowly, studying his expression. "That's a fair point- and I don't suppose you could talk to the night guard?"

"The night guard is a pompous, _intolerably_ dull creature. That, and I usually _sleep_ at night."

Renard nodded, considering him once more.

"Alright," she said again, this time sounding in equal parts cautious and resigned.

Loki's brows drew together, not sure what she meant, but hopefull.

"We can talk," she clarified. "About certain things."

He seemed surprised by this.

"By your tone," he said dryly, deciding it best not to point out the fact that he had little difficulty getting her to talk _without_ her expressed permission, "I deduce there are specific subjects you would rather leave to the imagination."

"Correct."

"Such as?"

"Any information that could be used to facilitate an escape attempt."

Loki shot her a sour look.

"I could have guessed as much."

"Specifics are important," she shot back, irritated.

He sighed.

"Very well- if those are your only terms...?"

"They are."

"Excellent- then might I inquire as to _what_, exactly, you are?"

Renard stopped short.

"I'm afraid that falls into the previously prohibited catagory."

Loki nodded.

"I can assume, then, that I am not the only one from which the information is being kept?"

Renard flinched, as if it were an accusation, and then gave him a warning look.

"Never mind- might I inquire as to the weather, if you deem the subject safe?"


	15. Nine months, 22 days before incident

**Nine months, twenty two days before incident**

**Location: Earth, U.S.A, Midtown: Manhattan: Stark Tower, floor zero.**

**Subject(s) involved: Renard, Loki, Gabriel**

"He was an imbecile."

"I'm not disputing that," Renard insisted, tucking a stray curl behind her ear, chin resting on the heel of her hand. "I'm just saying, maybe it was a heat-of-the-moment kind of thing. I mean, you give up everything for your girl, then you learn she's dead- that would mess with anybody's head."

"He knew her for a handful of days," Loki sneered, giving her an unparalleled _are you stupid_ look. "Enough to mourn her loss, perhaps, but to justifiably consider- let alone to _commit_- suicide was an entirely melodramatic course of action."

She shook her head at him, uncrossing her legs and pulling them up into the chair with her. She readjusted herself, resting her chin on her knees.

"That's sort of the nature of the beast, my friend- try finding me a Shakespearean tragedy that _isn't_ melodramatic."

Loki leaned back, aparently considering.

"Still," he said. "That either of them would go to such extraordinary lengths to be with a virtual stranger baffles me."

"Well, that's frisson for you," Renard agreed, shrugging. "Gets the best of all of us."

Loki cocked his head and sat up straighter at the first word.

"Frisson?" He repeated, unfamiliar with the term.

"Yeah- you know," she said, pursing her lips and hesitating, reluctant to explain. "_Frisson- _sudden passion. Sometimes used to describe love at first sight."

Loki almost choked on his own startled laughter.

"Love at first-"

"-_sight_, yes."

She shifted uncomfortably as he continued laughing at her.

"What?" She demanded defensively. "Never heard the term before?"

He shook his head, shoulders shaking with suppressed mirth.

"Never- please, do explain."

Renard shifted again, scowling at him, suddenly, _extremely_ uncomfortable.

"It's exactly what it sounds like." She grunted, stooping slightly, hoping to hide behind the computer monitor.

"Oh- and what does it sound like?"

Renard glared over top of the screen, stare rendered somewhat impotent because he couldn't see her eyes.

"Don't toy with me," she snapped. "And don't patronize me, either. I'm not making this up- it's a well documented phenomena."

Loki snorted, whether in amusement of disbelief she couldn't tell.

"Provide one such occurrence, outside the realm of the fictitious."

"Rabecca and Isaac," she fired back, crossing her arms and giving him a _take that_ look.

Loki smiled slightly, leaning forward and catching her gaze, genuine mischief and falsified affection glimmering sharp in his eyes.

"I'm afraid I'm unfamiliar with the couple. Tell me of them."

Renard froze and backtracked wildly, realizing quickly the door she had just inadvertently opened to him.

"Uh. They were a couple. They fell in love."

"At first sight." Loki added in a thick, sweet tone, as if he were speaking to a child. "So I gathered- but tell me more of them, if you would."

"What more do you want to know? And how did we get off of Romeo and Juliet, anyways?" She stalled, trying to think of a way to distract him. Loki seemed overjoyed at her evident inability to articulate, and took advantage of it without even a pretense, ignoring the second part of her question.

"Anything you can tell me, of course."

He didn't know why, but all her defenses had visibly snapped to attention. He took the sudden shut down as a sign that he was close to something significant, although he could not fathom what that might have been.

It had been barely over a week, he realized gleefully. _Would she reveal her secrets so soon?_

"Um." Renard said. "Okay. So... there was this guy named Isaac."

"Alright." Loki agreed.

"And his Dad's name was Aberaham."

"And?"

"And Abraham started trying to play matchmaker, because his son was in severe need of a woman. But he looked at the girls around the country they were in and was... suitably unimpressed. So he panicked and called for his friend Eliezar."

"Why?"

"I'm getting to that. So anyway, he called Eliezer and asked for help finding a wife for Isaac. He asked him to go back to their home country, contact his family there, find a girl and bring her back there."

She paused nervously, feeling the need to further explain.

"Because the gene pool was way better back then and dating cousins wasn't gross. And Eliezer was reluctant, but he did as Aberaham asked."

"Why?"

_"Because they were friends, I don't know_. So Eliezer got there, but after traveling through several hours of hot, unpleasant desert terrain to do so, he was dehydrated. As, incidentally, were his camels. So he stopped by this well, but was way to tired to draw water, on top of having no clue what he was supposed to do from there. So he prayed and was like- 'God? Hi. So I am both exhausted and totally without a clue as to how I'm supposed to get this done, so if you could just maybe send the right girl to me, that would be great. Also if she could get me some water out of that well? And my camels. Cause I'm thirsty. And so I know it's her. Amen.'"

"I take it you are paraphrasing."

"Heavily."

Loki shook his head slowly.

"Did it work?"

"Pretty much. This really girl named Rebecca walked over to the well, saw how tired he was and offered to get him and his camels water, and then she invited him over for dinner. Turned out she was a cousin, so Eliezer talked over why he was actually there with her and her family, and her family was cool with it."

"Was she?"

"Reluctantly- once he told her God had basically singled her out for it she was like 'GOD. Okay. Didn't see that coming. But hey, if GOD wants me to meet this guy and possibly get hitched, who am I to not do that?' So they met and she fell in love with him and he fell in love with her. The end."

"At first sight." Loki said mockingly.

_"...Pretty much."_

Renard had never been so grateful to hear the opening chords of _I wanna hold your hand _before in her life.

"Oh, thank _God_," she blurted without thinking, spinning her chair to face the other direction and whipping her phone out. "Renard, speaki-"

_"Child," _the voice of Gabriel snarled at her. _"I have been waiting for days for you to sort your issues out and call me back. I have been exceptionally patient, and might I remind you that I didn't have to be."_

Renard didn't know how to reply.

"I know, I'm sor-"

_"Don't you dare apologize now. I'm through being patient with you. The minute you get off of work, you are meeting me and Raffi at the southeast entrance of Saint Judith Memorial Hospital."_

"At a hospital? Gabe, what on earth have you b-"

_"No. Uh-uh. I am not doing this over the phone. Be there."_

Renard swallowed thickly.

"Alright," she agreed slowly, for fear of further angering her superior. "I'll be there. Where is-"

_"Google it."_

She hung up.

Renard sat frozen, phone still at her ear.

"Trouble?" Loki guessed, not incorrectly.

"Probably." She replied.

Loki studied her carefully.

Her story had all the pomp and circumstance of a myth, but she had insured him it had happened.

Loki tried to think, to piece the oddity together. What, then, was it? She had mentioned a god. She had then proceeded to _thank_ an unnamed god- possibly the same one. So was that what it was? Part of a religious text to which she adhered? Loki groaned. He could see why she would be reluctant to discuss her beliefs with him- a man, or as far as she was concerned, a psychopath, who had more than once claimed to _be_ a god.

_To her face._

But he was disappointed to realize the slip would do him little good. Without access to the text itself, he didn't have nearly enough information to use it against her. He gave up on the train of thought, filing it away and tuning back in to reality.

**Three hours later, same date- Saint Judith Memorial Hospital, Brooklyn, USA, Earth**

Gabriel was waiting by the door when she got there, disguised in scrubs.

"Hey," Renard greeted her, but Gabriel just shook her head and grabbed her by the elbow.

Renard stifled a yelp as her nails dug in, but allowed herself to be led- _towed- _in, through a crowded series of hallways and rooms, into an empty elevator.

Gabriel held up a silencing hand as she tried to talk.

"Ga-"

"No."

Renard bit her lip to keep quiet, worried, unsure what had her sibling so angry.

The elevator stopped on one of the lowermost floors, which- despite being sterile in appearance- gave the eerie impression of a dungeon.

A long, intimidating staircase and two left turns later, Renard came face to face with Raffi.

Tall- 6'5 at the least- and russet skinned, his long black hair pulled back in a ponytail, he was dressed the same sort of garb as Gabe, but with a lab coat on over it.

Sad blue eyes told her all she needed to know.

Her throat closed up, and she shook her head, trying and failing to clear the fog from it.

Raffi led them both into a frigid room. The floor was old, decaying tile and every wall was lined with rows of square, silver lockers. Metallic gurneys, one or two supporting sheet covered forms, filled the open space in the middle.

The sharp, heady smell of latex and bleach hit her, and her eyes watered.

She realized, belatedly, that they were in the morgue.

Without preamble, but tossing Renard an apologetic look, Raffi reached for one of the lockers and pulled it open.

Renard almost screamed, as she was greeted by a pale, dead face, framed by a mass of curly red hair.

"_God_," she breathed, the word high pitched and unsteady.

The woman's face was frozen in a grotesque death-mask, her throat covered in angry, bloody welts and a ring of bruises so purple they were nearly black. So extensive was the damage, it was impossible to tell whether she had slit her throat, hung herself, or both.

"Meet Erin Grey," Gabe said dully.

Worse than the terrible, lifeless stillness- worse than the dizzying, cloying stench of cold gore- worse than the nightmarish, fatal wound that had clearly put her down- were the benign injuries.

Renard couldn't speak.

Tiny crucifixes had been scratched into every visible inch of her skin.

Dry heaves shook her frame as bile rose, and she had to sit.

Which. Alright- the floor of an NYC mourge?

Even grosser than it sounds.

But it was between slowly, with numb legs and trembling fingers, lowering herself to the floor, and vomiting on a ravaged cadaver.

"Renard?" Raffi said, startled, voice deep and soft with concern.

Renard liked Raffi- he was the gentle giant of the family.

But right then...

"Raffi, if you don't keep your distance there's a very good chance I'm going to barf on you."

He exchanged a worried look with Gabe, who had temporarily dropped the cold shoulder, and stepped back.

Black spots dotted her vision, and the world suddenly seemed to be moving entirely to fast. Swallowing the pungent scent of death, Renard had to press her head between her knees and breath through her mouth.

She'd seen death before.

She'd grown up under it's looming shadow, watching as humanity evolved and decayed, and it had never gotten any easier to see. Every face, contorted, mouth twisted open, was like the first.

Horror froze her blood, as disgust nestled into the marrow of her bones and ate like acid.

"Renard," Gabe soothed, brushing that one irritating curl off her forehead with cool, tiny fingers.

Her sister crooned at her, soft words in French, German, Aramaic, Dutch- a jumble of utter nonsense that calmed her feverish hysteria into controlled fear.

It was nice.

After a minute, Renard caught her hand- which had loosened her braid and begun combing through it- and squeezed it, before standing up and forcing herself to study the dead woman.

The crucifixes were small- some neat, as if carved with a needle, some messy and barely recognisable, most likely scratched in with her nails.

Noticing her gaze, Raffi reached over, from the opposite side of the table and turned over her palm. A winding design in the form of a four-fingered hand, which she identified as a hamasa, inscribed in thick black ink into her skin was revealed.

"Her personal effects at the time of death included a p22, holy water, a rosary, and several talismans."

"What kind?"

"All kinds," Gabe answered, crossing her arms and considering the corps. "Dream catchers, wishbones, evil eye beads, dried four-leafed clovers, Rabbit's feet-"

"Rabit's foot, you mean."

Gabe shook her head.

"She had all four."

Renard grimaced.

"How did she..." Renard gulped and gestured to her neck, hoping they'd understand.

"Suicide." Raffi said grimly. "At 12:30 Am, last Monday night, she was reported to have broken into her own penthouse, raring drunk, and then barricaded herself in. The authorities were called when shots were fired."

"What did they find?"

"She was suspended from the balcony with wire-rope. Physical evidence suggests it wasn't her first attempt."

Renard breathed deeply, trying to steady herself.

"How long?"

"When did she start, you mean? Impossible to tell for sure. The ink on that tatto is hardly a month old, but her... items varry. The clovers are old, probably several years, hand picked. Looks like she collected them as far back as ten years. The Rosary and holy water were orderd on ebay two months ago."

"The rabbit feet?"

"Gathered from various flee markets and antique stores. Can't tell exactly when."

"So that's, what, a three month window?"

"Six, actually. The first scratch is about that old."

"Shouldn't it have healed by now?"

Raffi shook his head.

"From what I can tell, she reopened them all daily."

Renard choked on air and had to catch herself.

"So we're back to square one. We have no idea where Veronica is, or what she's planning."

"We know she hasn't found a replacement," Gabe corrected her. "And we know that she's getting desperate."

"Yeah? What makes you say that?"

"Simple," Gabe shrugged. "She's changed tactics. Usually, she intices people into her inner circle. This time, it looks like she tried tormenting her into it."

Renards eyes snapped from the macrebe patterns carved into Erin's flesh to Gabe's eyes.

"I thought you said she did this to herself," she demanded, confused.

"Yes- but think about it. These are holy symbols and good luck charms, indescrimanantly. This woman was trying desperately to protect herself from somthing. The question is-"

"What could Veronica possibly have done- what could she possibly have threatend her with- to scare her that much."

Renard was afraid she knew.

"Gabe- you said she'd lost family."

Gabe's face shut down.

"Her father, an aunt and all her brothers." Raffi confirmed, not understanding what she and Gabe had processed almost immediately.

"All within a month of one another."


	16. Nine months, 21 days before incident

******Nine months, twenty one days before incident:**

******Location: Earth, USA, Midtown : Manhattan, Stark Tower, floor zero.**

******Subject(s) involved: Renard, Loki, Nina Remerez, Natasha Romanoff**

Bone-tired though Renard was, it became obvious very quickly that she'd get no repreive in unconsiousness- mostly because it wasn't going to come.

Hours were spent lazily flipping through books, staring drowsily at the ceiling and or inwardly monolouging about all the reasons she should have been asleep. Several pills and an extra blanket later, the sun came up upon a very awake, very irritated Renard.

She wanted to roll back over and give it one more try (despite the fact that it was morning, and she had no time left with which ___to_ try again) but instead got up and showered, resigned to the that it would be both a waste of time and a wasted effort.

Pulling it back into a still-damp, particularly tight bun, she realized her day wasn't about to get any easier when she arrived at work and laid eyes on Loki- who looked just marginally worse than she felt.

Strinkingly dark shadows hollowed out the sockets of his eyes, bruise-like against the pale of the rest of his face.

His hair was long, as was his beard by then. Expression drawn, features sunken, he sat on the edge of the bed with long, bony fingers laced beneath his chin, elbows resting on his knees.

"Rough night?"

He snorted, nodding, pinching the bridge of his nose and leaning back to rest against the wall.

"Join the club," she said, eager to focus on the problems of someone else. "What's your story?"

He rubbed his eyes and cast her a weary, frustrated look, before admiting that he had had a visitor.

The way he said it, one would have thought the word 'visitor' was a synonym for 'painful growth'.

"My dear brother." Sarcasm and bitterness fought for dominance in his inflections, and bitterness won by a mile.

"And this is a bad thing?"

Loki half-laughed, half-huffed at her, and a strange, mangled sound was produced.

"Yes," he informed her, to exhausted to be curt. "This is a ___very_ bad thing."

"Might I ask why?"

"Shall I be required to respond if you do?"

"Humor me."

A deep sigh left him.

"Suffice it to say I find his company disagreeable."

"My company has never exactly made you jump for joy, but I've yet to depress you this much."

"It's only a matter of time," he intoned dully.

She ignored that.

"Honestly, I'd think you'd be happy to see any face that wasn't either mine or Fred's. Why are you so... ___apathetic_ at seeing your brother whats-his-face?"

"Thor."

"That one," she agreed. "What did he do?"

"Have you ever ___met_ my brother?" He asked rhetorically.

"No."

Loki stopped short and stared at her like she'd mispoken, and he was waiting for her to realize it and correct herself.

It was as if the idea that there was someone who didn't know Thor had never occured to him before.

"Are you going to answer sometime today," Renard prompted him after a solid minute of silence. "Or...?"

"I..." he shook his head, dazed. "There are ___many_ reasons, most of which I would rather not discuss. In this case particularly because his so-called visits are infinitely more like court proceedings. He came to inform me that my sentence is still pending."

"So he dropped by to tell you nothing is happening? What was the point of that?"

"Presumably, I have the right to be informed of any progress regarding my situation."

"That's considered progress?"

"Evidently."

"Huh."

"What?"

She shook her head, a troubled look on her face.

"Nothing- it just sounds like they're taunting you, more than anything."

He snorted.

"Yes, I'd noticed that as well."

Renard resisted a grimace, and Loki laughed, not without irony.

"Forgive me, Renard- perhaps I am embittered. Tell me- what is ___your_ family like?"

She scowled, though she supposed he had no way of knowing the minefield he had just stepped into.

"My family... has issues that cannot be summed up in the time between now and the end of my shift."

He chuckled.

"If there is one thing I am not short of, Miss Renard, it is time."

"Fair point. That being said, I'm not sure how much of this I should be telling you."

"Idealy, none," he replied, raising and eyebrow at her.

"___Touché, Monsieur_. Without going into detail, what family I have is a brand of dysfunctional topped only by the Mansons. On a good day."

The reference was lost on him, but four words immediately caught his attention.

"'What family you have'?"

She huffed, rubbing her temples.

"I was taken in by my father's... ___distant_ relatives when l was thirteen. I haven't had a civil conversation with any of my more immediate relations since even before that."

"And what prompted you to go to these distant relatives?" He inquired, sensing that he had finally stumbled upon the proverbial chink in her armor, or at least a soft spot in it.

"A fight," she said, face hidden behind her steepled fingers, voice suddenly low. "A _bad_ fight."

A beep cut him off before he could examine this statement.

"Ugh." She held up her index finger in the universal sign of ___one minute please,_ and turned around to answer- relieved beyond words that she had an excuse to stop talking.

___"Hey," _the voice of Nina greeted her___, "have you seen the trailer for _Gatsby___?"_

"Who?"

There was a pause.

___"Be honest with me- do you live under a rock?"_

"No."

___"Then stop acting like it."_

"If you insist- but I honestly haven't heard of that movie."

___"_The Great Gatsby___? Seriously? It's a classic."_

"Of what genera?"

___"Romance."_

Renard's expression turned sour.

"That would explain it."

___"You don't like romances?"_

"I don't like modern romances."

___"You're in luck, then. It's based off of a book written in the twenties, and we're seeing it tomorrow._"

Renard choked on air, the noise- the most emotive sound she'd ever made in front of him- startling Loki.

"We are not!"

Nina groaned loudly, not bothering to muffle it.

___"Renard, please. Everytime I want to see a romance without looking pathetic, I have to either bring someone with me or wait untill it's out on Netflix. I don't want to wait, and I'm tired of taking Ian and listening to him bitc-"_

"-Complain-"

___"-All through the movie. Please. I'll pay. You can sleep thru the entire thing, or read or pretend to get sick and leave halfway in. Just don't... make... me bring... Ian."_

Renard bit her lip.

"Why does it have to be me?"

___"All my other friends are men. Who else can I take?"_

"Your mother."

Loki's eybrows shot up upon hearing that, and Nina broke into nervous laughter.

___"Renard, my mother is a sixty five year old chain smoker. And she lives in Florida besides the fact."_

___Excuse, _Renard thought, scrambling___. You need an excuse._

"Nina, its not that I don't want... well, no, that's actually a very large part of it... but I have..."

___A severe allergy to popcorn? A date? A surgery? A horrible, flesh eating disease? What?_

___"Plans?"_

"___Plans_. Those. I mean, that. Yes."

___"With who?"_

"Madison," she blurted.

___"... Is that a real person or just the first name that popped into your head?"_

"Yes- and she's been wanting to do somthing for weeks."

That part, at least, was true.

___"Have you figured out what that something should be?" _Nina pried.

"...Not precisely..." Renard had to admit.

___"Then why don't you see _Great Gatsby ___with her? And, you know- me."_

Renard had many usefull skills- a passing grasp on Krav Maga and origami, a killer left hook, the ability to balance a thirty pound jug on top of her head and keep walking, and an ever evolving talent for linguistics among them.

Bold-faced lying, however, had always been a weak point for her, and she'd already done as much of it as she could stomach.

"You've never even met her before." She protested stubbornly.

___"New friends have never killed anyone." _Nina insisted stubbornly, refusing to let it go or to see how potentially awkward the meeting she was setting up could be.

"I can provide several examples to the contrary of that statement," Renard replied in a desperate rush. "One, Montezuma and Cortez. Two, Cleopatra and Octavius-"

"Renard! ___Please_," Nina interrupted her, sounding like she wanted to cry.

Renard froze at the sound of it, heart stopping and then going overtime.

"We can do that." She agreed quickly.

___"...What?"_

"Movies. Period dramas. Girls night out, whatever, just don't start _that_."

___"...Thats all it takes?"_

"Say nothing," she snapped, deadpan.

___"Oh. Um. Okay. Thank-"_

"NO- no thanking, no crying, just... I have a call to make. Goodbye."

_"Did I hear girls night out?"_ Ian began as she hung up.

**Same time the next day, Avenue Apartments- Global Cinema**

Seeing Nina and Madison side by side was almost worth the impending chick flick.

The former lawyer- porcalin skinned and peteite- perpetually dressed to impress had worn a pale, blue, cap sleeved blouse, gold drop earrings, and what looked like designer jeans- her fire engine red hair pulled back into an artfully tousled chopstick bun.

The tall, dark, currently employed elavator guard wore a faded green baseball t-shirt, worn capris and flip-flops, a hair tie around her wrist, coffe colored locks tucked plainly behind her unpierced ears.

They didn't appear to know what to think of one another.

"Hello?" Madison said, sticking her hand out, sounding as if she were asking a question.

"Hola," Nina replied, sounding equally confused by the general put-togetherness of the tiny woman.

"Madison Vey, Nina Remerez." Renard said, trying not to sound as amused as she was. "Nina Remerez, Madison Vey. Let's leave."

They left.

Nina, paying for both the cab, the tickets and the popcorn (as promised) seemed almost self conscious in Madison's presence- pulling her sleeves down from their place, bunched up around her elbows, braiding her hair and standing straighter- as if she felt underdressed.

Madison, apparently feeling ___overdressed_, tried discretely to let her own hair down- wiping her lipstick off on a napkin and unbuttoning the the top three buttons of her shirt.

They did this whilst avoiding eye contact- staring determinedly in opposit directions as they sat, waiting for the movie to begin.

It was, hands down, one of the funniest things Renard had ever seen.

It was also the sole bright spot of the night.

As soon as the lights dimmed, she removed her glasses and settled in, delightedly munching on the popcorn and not paying the slightest bit of attention to anything going on around her.

She remained that way for about ten minutes, after which it became impossible to do so.

"Why is he-"

"___Shhhhh,_" Nina and Madison hissed from either side of her.

Renard pursed her lips and sank lower in her seat, wanting to be invisible.

She had expected to be bored. She had expected the whole experience to be awkward and distasteful. She had not expected a far greater terror- that it would be boring, distasteful and awkward only for ___her_.

"But-"

___"Shut up!"_ Someone from the row behind her whisper-shouted, and she once again fell silent, deciding she simply wasn't paying enough attention, seeing as no one else had any questions.

Narrated by the main character, speaking to his therapist, it was set in New York durring the twenties (not unlike the book, from what Renard had gleaned), and apparently revolved around a neurotic billionaire, his parties, his tall blonde love interest, her cousin (therapy boy), her husband (read: ___not_ the neurotic billionaire), and her husband's mistress(es).

Plot-wise, that was all Renard could actually discern.

In the interest of being fair, the effects were fairly impressive. Impressive enough, she realized with growing ire, to effectively distract, for a solid thirty minutes, the audience from a reality that became painfully obvious the longer she paid attention.

The film itself was wholly uninteresting.

Acting unemotional, dialogue was dry, it was the least moving thing she'd ever been conned into watching. The way Nina and Madison (who had at some point had become comfortable enough to talk with one another) acted, however, it was the greatest love story ever told.

"That is gorgeous," Madison whispered, leaning her weight to rest on the arm of the chair, prompting Nina to do the same.

"Right?" Nina sighed, not seeming to realize they were talking across Renard, who was forced to lean back to make room for them. Getting frustrated when they made no move to get out of her face, Renard stuffed a fist-full of popcorn into her mouth and chomped on it as loudly as she could, untill they got the message and leaned back.

Resigned to the fact that she simply did not get this movie, Renard closed her eyes, trying to sleep.

She was awoken abruptly by a gunshot- causing her to jerk awake and send the half-full popcorn bucket in her lap to go flying (she heard someone curse behind her).

Realizing that said gunshot was accompanied by music, Renard calmed and blinked groggily, her eyes adjusting just in time for her to see the neurotic billionaire touch his clearly fatal wound (dramatically) and fall backwards (equally dramatically) into his swimming pool, where he proceeded to bleed.

A lot.

Then there was a funeral.

"...What did I miss?" She demanded once the credits had begun to roll.

"I know," Madison replied, sniffling as she got up. "I can't believe Tom would do that to Gatsby."

"I can totally believe it," Nina- ___also sniffling_- replied, leading them out and hailing another cab. "But it still pisses me off."

"___Right,_" Renard said slowly, climbing in.

"What gets me is Daisy, though- she didn't go to the funeral. Or call."

"She could have at ___least_ called," Madison agreed.

"And then she just left!"

"Ladies," the gruff old cabbie interrupted them sourly. "Unless you have somewhere to be-"

"Avenue Apartments," Nina said leaning forward. "It's on main. And speaking of that, where was she leaving to, again?"

Madison cocked her head, mouth open to reply, then hesitated, considering.

She looked at Renard, apparently not realizing she had been out cold for the majority of the show, prompting Nina to do the same.

"No clue," she said honestly. "You should check out the book- maybe it says."

They nodded, seemingly satisfied.

"Hey," Nina said, tapping the back of the cabbie's head rest. "Forget the apartment. Take us to the nearest library."

Renard wanted to protest that she hadn't meant _right then_, but decided it best to keep her mouth shut as the driver cursed and swerved.

Madison, being the only one with a card, got a copy for each of them despite Renard's protests.

Returning to her apartment and pulling her jacket off, she promptly forgot about it, snuggling into her blankets and dropping off. She was greeted, as she had been every night for weeks, by visions of the recently deceased heiress- this time bursting into an unfamiliar room through an unfamiliar door, tears making her face shine.

Renard awoke from less than ten minutes of rest gasping, and wondered if these were dreams or visions, and swallowed, wondering when they'd stop.

After several more brief, nightmare plagued naps, it became evident the answer was 'no time soon.'

Trying everything from pushups to cold medicine to exhaust herself, she ended up grumpily reading _The Great Gatsby- _which, fortunately, was much better than what she had seen of the movie.

Six hours later, half tempted to delay what would surely have been an unpleasant but nesseisary sleep, she put the surprisingly intriguing book away.

Bringing it with her to work the next day, she was greeted by a very grumpy Loki.

"You look terrible," she informed him bluntly, sitting down.

"At least it is unusual on my part," he groused, turning over in bed and pointedly ignoring her.

She ___harrumphed_ at him, not particularly hurt, and once again began reading.


	17. Nine months, 18 days- report part 1

******Nine months, eighteen days before incident**

******Location: earth, USA, midtown: Manhattan, Stark Tower, Floor zero**

******Subject(s) involved: Loki, Renard**

******Report segment one**

Loki's dreams that night were grotesque- haunting, distorted flashbacks that he woke from in confusion.

___Encircled by the angry, glaring figures of Asguards most valued politicians and diplomats, venom____welling up in their eyes, it became painfully clear that a pardon wasn't on the agenda._

___He felt oddly claustrophobic._

___There was an undertone of urgency that he couldn't remember being there the first time._

___In front of him in all his glory sat Odin, lines of age etched clumsily into his steely veneer- beside him, standing on the left, there was Frigga._

___On her left, there was Thor._

___Loki's interest was drawn to the unfamilure figure on Odin's right._

___Wearing no armor, swathed in a pristine white dress so long that it hid her feet, her face was turned toward Odin, further obscured by a long, dark curtain of hair. ____What caught his attention, of course- the most striking thing about her- was her hand... which was____ planted firmly on Odin's shoulder._

___He frowned and tried to turn his head to study her further, but found he couldn't._

___"Loki," Odin began, following up with a long list of crimes, but Loki payed him no attention._

___Instead, tougue as frozen as his muscles, he began to panic: that woman most definitely had not been there before._

His eyes snapped open and breath left him in a loud gasp.

It felt as if he were coming up for air, fighting the instinct to breath, head pounding. That same strange paralysis from his dreams hung like a led weight on him now, and he struggled to get upright.

Breathing raggedly as the world stopped spinning, he received an irritated look from the night guard (Fred, according to Renard) and sat back exhaustedly, embarrassed and startled.

Running his fingers through his hair and clutching his aching head, he tried to steady his breathing.

He didn't know what time it was- he only knew it was night because of the presence of his current guard- but he'd guess it to be very early, rather than very late.

One, maybe two in the morning?

He shook his head.

This was actually worse than the insomnia that had been plauging him for the last few weeks- it was as if every negative thing he could have possibly dreamt of in that time had been stockpiled, and now that he could actually sleep it was coming out in a rush.

Turning over and trying to relax, despite his intense discomfort, he shut his eyes determinedly.

After a solid hour of stubbornly holding this position, he sighed and gave up.

Discretely pulling Renard's book from beneath the bed, he sat up with his back to the guard and began reading.

He had just reached Othello- judging from the wear on the pages, a favorite.

It was not the great, melodramatic kind of tragedy he had come to expect of the author, and he supposed he could see why Renard must have liked it so much, but nearing the end he was forced to agree that it was tragic.

He shook his head at it, putting it back into it's place, and tried again to sleep.

___"You will not," the woman hissed in Odin's ear, voice like cooling metal, "let this be. Thousands are dead. Thousands more are left injured, homeless, or destitute. The toll will only get higher, as an armada of ruthless barbarians even now makes its way to earth because _your son___ led them to it. This man has singlehandedly crippled an entire world, and I will not let you sit him in a corner and tell him to think about what he's done like an arrant child. I won't tell you to kill him- I know you won't. But whatever his punishment is, it will be permanant, and it... will... be... on... earth."_

His lungs felt flooded as he resurfaced, and he gagged into consciousness, retching and nearly rolling off the bed.

"Whoa," the voice of Renard greeted him, and he wondered how long he'd been asleep this time. "Easy, boy. What's wrong with you?"

He shook his head, still coughing, and tried to think through the oxygen deprived haze and the intense migraine that clouded his brain.

"Bad dreams," he replied, dragging his hands down his face and trying to regain his already precarious equilibrium.

She nodded almost sympathetically and leaned back.

"Those seem to be going around. We could form a club."

He ignored her for a second, doubled over, head in his hands, frame quaking with shuddering breaths.

"Seriously, mate, are you all right?" She sounded less enthusiastic this time, concerned.

"Nightmares," he finally responded. "Have never killed anyone. I am fine."

"Spoken like a man who's never seen a horror movie." She leaned forward, considering him.

He hadn't looked any form of the word 'good' in ages, but right then, he looked nearly... was there even a word for it? To thin, his skin taking a greenish palor, his hair long and knotted, shirt half plastered to him with sweat... she took it back.

There was a word for it- dead. He looked almost ___dead_.

"Honestly, though," she managed, conflicted. "Do you want me to slip you an aspirin or somthing at lunch? Because I can do that."

He had to laugh, although he wasn't entirely certain what aspirin was.

"Your concern is endearing," Loki replied, to tired to sound sarcastic, "but no."

Renard shrugged, biting the inside of her cheek, thinking two things- one, if he vomited, she was ___not_ cleaning it up.

Two... bad dreams really ___did_ seem to be going around.

She herself had yet again been up half the night in an exhausted stupor, driven from much needed rest by images of the death of Erin Grey.

___Why isn't there an angel of therapy?_ She found herself wanting to know___. There's an angel of announcement, an angel of healing, an angel of battle, an angel of harmony, and an angel of Wednesday... why isn't there an angel of therapy? I can't be the only one who needs one._

Still haunted by what she had seen and completely unable to put it out of her mind, Renard found her latest dream playing on a loop in her mind.

Violent, frenzied images filled her head, everytime she relaxed long enough to close her eyes, and she jerked back to awareness.

Operating on three hours of sleep in the last three days, augmented by the drowsyness of her post-sad-story depression, and she realized the growing danger of her dozing off. Cracking her neck and leaning back, she crossed her arms and starred at Loki with determination.

He was asleep again.

___Odin didn't respond to her hissed commandments._

___More disturbingly, neither did anyone else._

___Perhaps they could not see or hear her- but then, why would she bother trying to speak with them? Why would she rant and rave if she knew there was no one listening to her?_

___The same question was applicable to himself, as he bitterly defended his actions, involuntarily, with the same words he had used the first time he had gone through this._

___He asserted that he was guilty of nothing- not in so many words, of course, but for all he strained his silver tongue, it was clear to everyone what he meant._

___"Because of your actions," Odin thundered, sounding all at once disappointed and incredulous, "Thousands are slain. Those who live live only to meet their end at the hands of the Armadas of Thanos, once he reaches them. Midguard____faces now not a war but total annihilation- even if they through some great miracle acheive victory, unimaginable loss waits at their doorsteps, and you have brought it upon them in the name of a vandetta... and you claim you are not guilty? In the light of this, I can come to only one judgement."_

___Drawing in air, he raised his voice so that it echoed across the stadium-like complex._

___"Loki of Asgard- you were brought here today as a criminal of war, on trial for his very life. You are deserving not even of this. Untill such a time as you can face your crimes, your right to a trial is denied, to be spent on Midguard, suffering as they soon shall suffer."_

___Loki didn't see what happend next in this strange parody of events, as he was thrust abruptly backwards, the air leaving his lungs, the scene twisting into another one entirely._

___The circle of glares faded into a circle of men and women, speaking peaceably if urgently to one another._

___He recognized them as the so called Avengers._

___"I don't think we should be focusing on Loki- that guy's brain is a bag of cats, you can smell crazy on him."_

___"Have care how you speak," Thor rebuffed him angrily._

___Loki's attention was drawn to the person by the door._

___It was a woman- dressed in normal Midguardian clothes, face turned away from him to study the little group- and he wanted to swallow as he realized it was the same woman as before._

___Here to, her presence went unacknowledged._

___He tried to move further away from her, but found himself again unable to._

___Stark arrived, boasting loudly of whatever, and the woman left her post to follow him._

___"That bug you're somewhat conflicted about planting? Don't be," she said, and her voice struck Loki not as familiar, but as if it should have been._

___Again, the world twisted- idle chatter drifted up from below, the combination of so many voices a dull buzz in his ears._

___As if his mood had been reset along with the setting, he felt totally at ease, a slight thrill the only thing that sped his heartbeat. The people below mingled politely, that great gathering of this dank rock's so called elite, looking almost insectioid beneath him, and he bit back a smirk._

___How pathetic they were._

___How utterly frivolous and empty._

___"Oh," a quiet voice breathed behind him, pleasant surprise coloring her tone._

___The sudden calm that had engulfed him receded with a vengeance, leaving him once again panic stricken. He____tried to turn, to confirm that it was the same seething aparition that seemed to be stalking him, who now stood not three feet away._

___He couldn't._

___As if his muscles were literally frozen, he remained exactly how he was, staring into the ballroom and wondering what was happening to tried to peered out of the corner of his eye, but his gaze____was drawn immediately back below, and he surveyed the people once more. It was a gala of some sort, in and of itself uninteresting, the rich and presumably influential dressed in foreign finery- women in tight dresses, hair pilled elegantly atop their heads, the men that accompanied them donning fine, black suits._

___He managed with a great effort to look back to the woman beside him._

___She stuck out as thoroughly as if she had done it on purpose. Hair____messy, almost windblown, down and clearly tangled, dressed casually, not wearing any jewelry to speak of- she must have snuck in, but when had she gotten there, and how?_

___"Well," she sighed airily, voice lightly accented. "Would you look at that."_

___He wanted to turn to see what she was looking at, a sudden feeling of urgency suggesting that whatever had her so enthralled would be gone by the time he gatherd the strength to turn and see it. Of their own volition, his previously sluggish muscles came to life, dragging him down a long, ornate stairwell and past the strange woman. Taking advantage of the new angle, he raked his eyes to the side, finally able to see... what?_

___The _wall___?_

___Thats what she had found so moving?_

___Constructed of the same smooth white stone as the stair, it was painted, depicting what looked like winged men, women and children, dancing and flying, all in various states of undress._

___"Totally inaccurate," she decided firmly, then added softly, "but beautiful."_

___He wanted to look at her, to figure out what she was seeing that he wasn't, but couldn't- she was gone. The scene twisted yet again, and he tried to force himself back into the waking world, but for the life of him could not._

___Bright, flawless marble was replaced by decaying concrete and flickering lights- the sparkling mob replaced with an almost emaciated one._

___He now dircetly faced the woman's back, as she leaned over the desk of Selvig._

___"Well," she said lightly. "That's rather clever."_

___Erik didn't reply, but made a self satisfied sound which the woman aparently took as agreement._

___"Oops," she said after a minute, pointing to some tiny equation. "See that, right there? That's wrong. You should probably change it."_

___As if he were compelled to do so by the mere suggestion, he turned to the problem and scanned it, redoing all the math, recalculating every variable, before eventually shaking his head and moving on._

___"Or look," she tried again. "What about this? Did you do that right? I don't think so."_

___Again, Selvig responded to her without speaking- as had Odin and Stark._

___Loki found himself drawing closer, suddenly able to do so, just as Selvig moved on and the woman huffed._

___"Alright," she said. "So your math is perfect. That's wonderfull. But, oh, um... I'm sorry, are you sure that's what he meant?"_

___They were studying the schematics of the portal, Loki realized belatedly._

___"Are you sure that's how he wants it?" She continued. "You can turn it on, that's lovely, but don't you think it would be prudent to develop a way to turn it off?"_

___Selvig scratched the back of his head._

___"Well, of course Loki would want you to- after all, you wont want to keep it on forever. And besides- what if somthing goes wrong? You can't possibly predict every variable- don't you think you should have some sort of fail safe?"_

___"It could be used against us," Selvig insisted, as if he were speaking to himself._

___"So don't tell anyone," she replied, sounding gleefull, as if he had played right into her hands. "Keep it a secret- if you don't need it, more the better- no harm no fowl. But what if you do need it, and you don't have it? Then what?"_

___Selvig nodded consideringly._

___"And think about it," she said as Loki walked around the desk. "Imagine how thrilled Loki will be if you end up saving the day, as it were? Don't you think that's worth a little extra time?"_

___Loki felt his heart stop as the woman looked up. He hadn't recognized her voice. Why hadn't he recognized her voice? And failing that, how many tall, muscular, ebony skinned Midguardian women did he know?_

___Long, inky curls framing her face- she wasn't wearing glasses..._

___It was Renard._

___It was Renard, and her eyes were matted with scars, her irises the exact color of frozen acid._


	18. Nine months, 18 days- report part 2

******Nine months, eighteen days before incident**

******Location: Earth, USA, Midtown: Manhattan, Stark Tower, floor zero**

******Subject(s) involved: Renard, Loki**

******Report segment two**

Loki awoke quietly this time- his mind in a knot of confusion.

He was laid sprawled, staring blankly at the ceiling.

_Renard._

He rolled his eyes downward, not daring to move, trying to appear asleep.

It proved unnecessary, as she really was asleep.

Or she appeared to be asleep, at least. Loki swallowed, heart beating wildly. He wanted to sit up, to walk to the glass and to study her, but he was reluctant to move, even to breath to obviously.

It might have been a dream.

It _must_ have been a dream.

Both Renard's origins and her abilities were mysteries to him, it was true- but _invisibility_- not to mention ___telepathic incursion_- no.

It was impossible.

His chest felt tight.

Despite what he tried to tell himself, a sense of inescapable danger kept him deathly still- it were as if he had initiated a game of cat and mouse without realizing, one, that he was not the cat, and two, said cat was more like a panther.

He had already decided that he'd just been dreaming.

Renard had not been at his trial, had never met Odin, did not have those terrible eyes, probably didn't _own_ a dress.

He didn't think she did, at least- there was only one real way to be sure.

High pitched, almost frightened whimpers jolted him back to reality.

Renard sat, slumped over the console, her head resting on top of her folded hands.

Her glasses, pinched between her temple and her knuckles, were forced into an askew position.

Cautiously sending a double out, he peeked between the mirrored lens and her eye.

He had to jerk back and bite his forearm to hide the sound of his own retching.

That brief glance had not been enough to do her injuries justice.

Not nearly.

The thick, dark smattering of scar tissue that marred her skin was barely, badly hidden beneath a thin layer of cosmetics, the flesh there no longer ebony but a molted pink-brown, bubbled, puckered and unnaturally smooth, as if it had been melted. She didn't have any eyelashes.

He belatedly identified them as burn scars, and bile rose hot in his throat.

_Someone_, at some point, had tried to burn her eyes out- and from the look of it, they had nearly succeeded.

Breathing deeply and forcing himself to look back, he studied her more carefully.

Because her mutilated lids were pinched shut, he couldn't see her actual eyes- though her lids jumped from the rapid movement of them.

From the look of it, she was having a nightmare.

___The door swung open, and Erin Grey burst through._

___Her hair and eyes were wild, her expensive skirt suit rumpled and damp with sweat._

___She pivoted, hurtling her weight backwards against the plane of solid oak and spinning, turning to lock it. She grabbed for the deadlock and twisted it, but her fingers were so unsteady she dropped the first of three bolts twice, before finally succeeding in her purpose._

___A knock interrupted her efforts to and she sprung away, leaving the door only half secure and grabbing a gun from the drawer of an ornate desk._

___There was another knock, this one so loud it rattled the door, and Erin sobbed gutturally, pointing the gun at the door and crawling backwards under the desk._

___When whoever it was outside started pounding, she tried to load a magazine and disengage the safety at the same time, instead accidentally dropping the gun._

___The pounding got louder, and Renard realized they weren't knocking anymore, but trying to break the door down._

___Erin, apparently coming to the same terrifying conclusion, gave up on the gun, letting it on the floor and bolting across the room, to the balcony on the other side._

___Wrenching the glass doors open, she surveyed her surroundings in evident desperation- on the fifth floor, more than thirty feet up, it was obvious she couldn't simply jump- but it was more like twelve feet, directly down, to the next balcony._

___Retreating back inside, she scrambled, looking for anything to get her there._

___It was a business office._

___There was no rope, no ladder, nothing sturdy enough or long enough to lower herself down- or at least, anything meant to be._

___Brightly colored coffee lamps illuminated the room, suspended from the unusually high ceiling by electrical cords. They weren't twelve foot long, of course- maybe just five._

___But she herself was five-six. Together, that was more than ten foot- if she dangled when she got to the end, then let go... that was only two feet._

___She could survive two feet._

___Kicking off her heels and climbing on top of the desk, she wrapped both fists around the cord and yanked._

___It didn't come free easily, but it did come free, and- running back outside and tying a small loop in the end, to act as a foothold, and then secured it tightly to the bottom of a concrete spindle. Erin was about ready to go when she realized she'd left the gun._

___It would do her little good, seeing as she hadn't had the time to learn how to use it, but she doubted the same could be said for whoever it was a her door, and she didn't want them shooting her before she could get away- or at all, actually. She went back for it- it was the wrong move._

___The door splintered around it's hinges and came flying off, Erin narrowly avoiding it._

___An expensive looking, red patent leather heel crossed the threshold._

___Attached to a perfectly manicured foot and a long, lean calf, it was followed by a willowy woman with long, strawberry blond hair. It was the last thing Erin expected._

___"Well," the woman sighed, brushing off her own blood-red suit. "It seems you've done most of my work for me."_

___Erin balked, blood leaving her face as she began backing away._

___The woman didn't seem to have any interest in her._

___Walking right past her, to the balcony and through the open doors, she kneeled down and examined the cord, checking the knot and nodding almost approvingly._

___"It's perfect," she said sounding gleeful, rubbing her latex clad hands together in excitement. "And you tied it yourself- I won't even have to add fingerprints."_

___The woman gathered the cord up, loosening the loop at the end and making it bigger before tying it back up tightly._

___Erin bolted for the door, but was grabbed by her arm and shoved back in._

___Stumbling backward and hitting the ground, she looked up to see a man in a blue uniform._

___"What are you doing?" She demanded as the police officer kneelt down and- before she could pull away- reached behind her and locked his fists around her wrists._

___His grip was clammy and tight- tight enough to keep her captive, no matter how hard she pulled, but not quite tight enough to leave a mark._

___The woman walked past them both again, fishing the gun out from under the desk and loading it with deft movements._

___Going back and leaning out, backwards over the balcony, she shot three times directly into the sky._

___The noise left Erin's ears ringing, so she couldn't hear when the woman spoke again._

___"Bring her over, tie her up, throw her off. Call it in, say... five minutes from now."_

___The man shook his head as tears welled up in his eyes, but he said nothing and did as he was told._

_"By the way," the woman called over her shoulder, walking away as the sound of choking drifted up from below. "You didn't just see that- you didn't just _do that___. You got a call about shots, you came, you broke the door down, she was dead. Case closed."_

Renard awoke gasping for air, as if she herself had been hung.

Bolting upright and flailing, she scratched at her throat and filled her burning lungs with stagnate air, almost falling out of her chair.

Loki jerked back, frozen as she writhed, staring at her as she gaped and gasped wildly.

Glasses sliding almost off her nose, he felt his heart stop as her eyes snapped open.

He was greeted with the same terrifying irises that had so captivated him in his dream: large and perfectly almond shaped, they were a striking, unnatural shade, indistinguishable as either green or blue, encircled by a darker ring of the same color.

His dreams had in no way exaggerated them- they were, in fact, the exact color of frozen acid.

Renard, calming down just enough to stop tearing at a cord that wasn't there, immediately whipped out her phone and called Gabe.

"Renar-"

"It wasn't suicide." Renard interrupted her, voice shaking.

"I know, sweetheart. I just asked the boss. He confirmed it was murder- the visions are from him."

"I don't understand. Why would they..."

There was a pause, in which two phenomenally significant things happened.

One- Renard realized Loki was staring at her.

Two- Gabriel sighed.

"I can't be positive. But the more I think about it, the surer I am that Erin Grey was just a distraction."

"From what?"

"Renard... Think about it. Why did we consider her?"

"Because she fit the profile."

"A profile you created with data gleaned from observation- correct?"

"... Yes."

"Exactly. Renard, I think they've been laying down false trails for years. They formed the basis for your profile, and then they pandered to it."

"Why?"

"Like I said- to distract you."

"You can't know that."

"Think about it! The dead lawyer, the Greys, Craig Taylor's mental breakdown... do you remember what he called you?"

Renard's heart clenched.

"They fit all our expectations, and none of them were guilty."

"Then why aren't they making new leads now? Why stop? No one has poped up on our radar since Erin's death."

"Renard... I don't think they need to anymore."

Panic set in as Renard caught on.

"I'm afraid you got here to late this time. They've finally found their new priestess- and they've done an excellent job of keeping her a secret."

Renard felt nauseous.

"So what do we do now? If I failed..."

Gabe made a frustrated noise.

"I have one idea, and you know I would never suggest this if we had another option. But if ever there were a time to talk to your father..."

"It's now," Renard agreed thinly, nodding. "How much time do I have to get there?"

"I can have everything ready in a week- you've got that long to figure out how to get out of work."

Renard hung up, pulling her glasses all the way off, continuing to stare at Loki, who had to physically prevent himself from flinching at the potent intensity of her gaze.

"Renard..." He said slowly.

Renard sighed, rubbing circles into her temples.

"Don't ask," she said simply, realizing her shift was over and getting up to leave. "I can't tell you anything."


	19. Nine months, 11 days before incident

**Nine months, eleven days before incident**

**Location: Earth, U.S.A, Midtown: Manhattan, Stark Tower, floor zero**

**Subject(s) involved: Loki, Renard**

Loki disliked confusion as a general rule- he especially disliked it in the massive doses he was currently experiencing.

What exactly was Renard referring to when she said she couldn't explain?

Her eyes?

Her injuries?

The strange call she had made the minute she awoke, babbling to an known person about fake suicides?

Or the epicenter of his bewilderment, his own dreams? It was unlikely, he had to admit- Renard had no way of knowing about those twisted visions, at least to the best of his own knowledge.

He wanted to ask her irregardless, but speaking strategically, it would have been wisest to question her when she was feeling... _not_ violent.

And violent was the only word he could think of to accurately describe her mood as of the last several days- the most _disturbing_ mood he'd seen her in to date. She was violently angry, violently cynical, violently critical; but more than that, she was also- in equal parts- violently _depressed_. It was as if as agitated as she was with others, she was doubly so with herself, and he had no idea how to respond to that.

At that very moment she sat slumped, chin resting on her balled fist, glaring directly ahead.

Loki bit his tounge, eyes darting between her and the wall, wondering what so offended her.

"I'm not going to be here." She informed him curtly.

"Pardon?"

"Tomorrow. Or the day after that. Or the day after that. I'm not going to be here." She paused, head flicking a cintemeter to the side to glare at him. "Nina will be, though, and I like her, so please refrain from threatening and or psychologically maiming her."

"I shall endevour not to," he agreed readily, startled at her outburst. "But may I ask why not?"

"Ideally because psychologically maiming people is wrong, but-"

Loki bit back a laugh, shaking his head.

"I was referring to why you won't be here tomorrow, or the day after that, or the day after that."

"Oh. I'm going somewhere."

"Vacation?"

"Do people usually go to war zones for vacation?"

Loki sat up straighter, alarmed.

_"War zones?"_

Renard nodded, sighing and rubbing her forehead as if she had a headache.

"Baghdad- it's where my father lives."

"You're visiting family, then?" He guessed, strangely relieved.

_If it was safe enough for her family_... she snorted as if he were being naive.

"You could put it that way, yes."

"You don't sound particularly enthusiastic."

"Let me refrase that statement- Bagdad: it's where my father is _incarcerated_."

Loki's eyebrows shot up.

"For what?" He demanded.

"Don't get me started."

**The next day, three A.M, location: American Airways, flight terminal**

It was to early.

Way to early.

Forced to get up at one to pack- somthing she knew better than to put off, but had put off anyways- Renard was especially surly that morning. As, unfortunately, was everyone else in what she'd christened the Terminal of the Damned.

She'd never seen so many five o'clock shadows in one place in her life, and she wished she never had.

Gabriel sat beside her in the guise of a stout, middle-aged woman - a mostly empty suitcase beside her for the sake of propriety- giving her the tickets and detailing her flight plan.

"Your flight has three stops. ETA six thirty-five A.M. tomorrow. Michael is your contact; he'll be there to meet you with a car."

"Six thirty five A.M? Why do you never tell me these things before hand? I would've brought a pillow or a jar of peanut butter or somthing."

Gabe rolled her eyes.

"Read a book. You can't expect me to believe you didn't bring a few. And speaking of things you should have if you don't," she reached into the front pocket of the suitcase and pulled out a balled up fistfull of navy blue fabric, stuffing it into Renard's waiting hands. "This is a hijab. You're going to want to put it on before you land."

"Ma'am yes ma'am. Did you check the in-flight movie, to? Is it any good?"

"'Santa Clause conquers the Martians'," Gabe replied simply, nose scrunching up in distaste. "Even worse than it sounds. I suggest ear plugs."

"That was sarcasm, but thanks for the warning."

Renard's flight was called, and Gabe squeezed her hand as she got up.

"You'll be okay. Just remember who's on your side."

Renard nodded, squeezing her hand back and then forcing herself to pull away.

The flight itself was uneventfull- all things considered, a good thing.

Santa Clause Conquers the Martians was in fact a terrible movie, made worse by the fact that it distracted her attention from _Gatsby-_ attention that was further divided by the family of four that sat beside her, consisting of a bedraggled man in his late fourties, a morbidly obese blonde woman who spent the whole flight cooing at her obscenely loud baby, and an equally obese thirteen year old boy with a buzz-cut, who sat right beside Renard and kept unapologetically trying to look down her shirt.

She spent most of the flight alternitively trying to read and glaring unabashedly at said morbidly obese thirteen year old boy.

The fact that she was relieved when they touched down spoke volumes.

"Rough flight?" A tall, tan, muscular young man with a heavy accent asked as she grabbed her luggage.

"Very," she agreed, smiling wearily when she noticed bright, cobalt blue eyes peeking out from beneath the mop of his curly brown hair.

"Michael?"

"It's good to see you too, Renard. You haven't aged a day." He kissed her cheeks and took one of her two bags, leading her out of the airport and into the penetratingly bright sunlight.

Reanrd squinted, shielding her eyes as they made their way to a black jeep.

The front seats were already occupied by a driver and a man she assumed to be a guard (mostly because he was armed with a glock), so she followed Michael into one of the back seats.

"Where to?" She tried to ask through a yawn.

"First, to a hotel. You, my friend, are fatigued."

"Jet lagged," she corrected him, stretching. "It's not that bad."

"Not your call, I'm afraid. We don't want you falling throughout the middle of your own interrogation."

"Fair enough."

The hotel was more like a motel, the air smelling of secondhand smoke, the walls made of painted brick, the sheets and blankets cheap and stiff.

Michael left her to it, but the armed man from the car was positioned outside her door. It was uncomfortable, knowing he was there. Still though, the worst bed was more comfortable than the floor, and Renard undressed and collapsed onto it without complaint.

Exhausted into a dreamless sleep, she awoke the next day, sun piercing and high in the sky.

A knock brought her out of her sleepy haze.

"Time to go, my friend. We have a long way to drive."

Renard nodded, before realizing he couldn't see her and verbally agreeing.

"One second."

She pulled on a thin cotton shirt with long sleeves and an ancient pair of jeans, brushing her teeth and hair before braiding it and slipping the hijab back on.

Michael greeted her with breakfast, which they ate on the way.

"How far?"

"A few more kilometers, I'm afraid. Speaking of which, though," he twisted back without taking his eyes off the road, snapping at the guard in the back seat, who passed him a polished wooden case about three feet long. "For you."

She frowned curiously, prying it open.

Something that felt metalic was inside, wrapped in soft, worn white cloth.

"Be carefull," he advised as she began to unwrap it.

It was... a sword?

Maybe?

It was too long to be a dagger, but too short to be a spear- constructed entirely of a strange metal too lightweight to be bronze.

The blade was double edged, about a foot and a half long, in the shape of an enlongated tear.

Near the hilt on which it was mounted (half as long and cylindrical, with a solid, heavy sphere at the end) it was encrusted on both sides with a pale blue jewel in the shape of a much smaller tear.

"... Just what I always wanted?"

"It had better be- the edge is less than a molecule thick. Speaking theoretically, that blade could cut through anything."

"Even a brick?"

He rolled his eyes at her.

"Yes, even a brick."

"I know what I'm doing when I get home."

Michael laughed.

"Not quite what I had in mind, but I'm sure that will be an interesting experience. Here though- twist the ball."

Renard frowned, but did as he instructed, and jumped back as the blade jumped forward, hilt telescoping at both ends and more than tripling it's length.

At the same time, the blade split- springing apart into three separate prongs, the two on the side slightly shorter than the one in the center.

Renard shouted, making an unintelligible noise of surprise from her place, plastered to the passenger side window.

Michael laughed again.

"Sorry, should've given you more warning. Consider it a gift, though I'll have to ship it to you later- there is simply no way on this earth that this is getting through airport security."

"Where did you even get it?" Renard demanded in awe, unable to take her eyes off of what she now realized was not only a sword, but a trident.

"Made it."

Renard continued gaping at him.

He grinned at her, but said nothing, instead slowing down and pulling over, nodding to the guard in the back before getting out and gesturing for Renard to do the same.

"We have to walk from here- don't worry, it's not that far. Bring the trident, though."

"Why? Isn't he in chains?"

"Of course. Sadly, a dangerous man is a dangerous man whether he's in chains or not. Bring the trident," he said again, shutting the driver's side door behind the guard. "But don't use it unless I give you the clear."

Renard shrugged, twisting the ball back, watching the prongs once more spring together, hilt returning to its previous state.

Michael led the way once more, as the guard drove away and the scent and sound of rushing water became stronger.

The trek was longer than she'd been led to believe, and light as the trident... sword... thing was, she had to tuck it into the loop of her belt to keep steady.

Dry, dusty earth slowly transformed into lush grasses, thick mud and powdery sand, the humid air echoing the sound of the Euphrates river... which was exactly as Renard remembered it, minus of course the uniformed military unit patroling it's banks.

Renard glanced uncertainly at Michael, who seemed totally unconcerned.

The closer they got, the clearer the scene became. The unit was armed, guarding a tall, barbed fence that gated in a shabby, decaying wooden dock, almost totally submerged, with flood water spraying between it's ancient timbers.

One of then shouted as they drew nearer, but Michael held up a badge, and they stopped shouting and went to open the gate.

"Don't tell me." Renard said gleefully.

"Shut up." Michael said, casting her a weary look.

She didn't shut up.

"You're a _fed_ now? That... that is just to good."

"I couldn't just knock them unconscious every time I needed in." He defended himself in a tone of self-loathing. "It would have drawn attention to us."

Someone grabbed for Renard, and she knocked them flat on their back without a thought. The sound of at least five guns cocking at the same time made her freeze. Michael groaned, holding up his hands and saying somthing to the effect of 'she's with me.' The guns were lowered reluctantly, and Renard glared at the man who had grabbed at her before spinning on her heel and marching through the now open gate.

"What now?" She demanded as the gate was once again drawn shut behind her.

"Call him."

"Me?"

"This is your interrogation," he replied, shrugging. "And that is your diseased maniac of a father. So yes, you."

It was her turn to groan.

Turning to the river and slowly stepping forward, she was greeted by the sound of creaking wood.

She took another cautious step, and floodwater rushed over the toe of her boot.

Continuing to a meter short of the ragged edge, she found herself up to her ankles in water, at which point she stopped, breathing deeply to calm her racing heart.

"Abbadon," she shouted.

Nothing happened.

She turned to Michael helplessly.

He raised his eyebrows at her.

"Father," she called again, louder this time.

Again, nothing.

"Dad," she shouted, braking down.

A pale, shackled hand broke the bank, reaching heavenward and then latching on to the last board of the dock.

Another hand followed, and a hulking form emerged from the cloudy depths.

Her father was exactly as she remembered him, too.

Skin blodless looking, lips blue with cold, he hauled himself, waterlogged, bare-chested and foot onto the fragile wooden structure, onto his knees, then to his feet.

Every inch of him was bulging with muscle, naked but for a bright red loincloth and the thick chains that bound him.

He didn't have hair anywhere- not on his arms or legs, or on his head.

He didn't have eyelashes or eyebrows.

His ears were pierced with tiny golden rings, all along the cartilage- as were his nose and lip.

He raised his eyes to her and smiled menacingly, revealing two rows of shark like teeth and eyes like blue fire.

He straightend, drawing himself up to his full height, head and shoulders above her six-foot frame.

"Bath Kol." He acknowledged her, voice deep like the river he'd emerged from, rumbling like an aftershock.

"It's Renard now, actually," she informed him, pulling the hijab down around her neck.

"You've changed your name." He shook his head in mock-sadness. "My, we do have some catching up to do, don't we? Look at you. All grown up. Tall."

"No," Renard snapped, ignoring his observations. "As a matter of fact, we don't have any catching up to do. That isn't why I'm here."

"I know why you're here." He thundered. "Veronica. The cult. You want to know what they're planning, and for some strange reason, you think I can tell you."

"So they are planning something."

"Always."

She waited for him to elaborate, and had to take a calming breath when he didn't.

"I'm going to need you to be a little more specific than that."

"What makes you think I can be?" He challenged her with skepticism. "What makes you think I know anything more than you do?"

"You're the devil's right hand man. You always know somthing."

He laughed at her, and she tried not to flinch.

"Your confidence in me is flattering, darling, but please keep in mind the fact that I have been _chained to the bottom of a river _for the last five thousand years. The grapevine is a bit rusty down there, you know."

"_Do _you know anything?" She demanded, running out of patience, already desperate to leave. "Or did I just make a trip to Baghdad for nothing?"

"You call visiting your father in prison _nothing_? I'm wounded." He paused, momentarily dropping the cooperative facade and scowling at her. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised, considering you're the one that put me here."

"One of my prouder accomplishments," she agreed, fingering the trident at her side.

Abbadon shook his head again, this time seemingly amused.

"So rude. What would your mother say?"

Renard drew in a shuddering breath.

"I wouldn't suggest bringing her into this."

"Dear daughter, how could I ever leave her out? She started all this. She turned you against me- against your true family."

"She died for me," Renard spat, eyes misty.

"Irrelevant." He spat back.

She shook her head, trying to clear it.

"I can leave the same way I came. Tell me what you know or I will."

"Strong words for a runt. Very well. I can tell you this much- what Veronica and her followers do, they have planned for ages."

"And what plan is that, exactly?"

"The end. They are not content to wait for their long prophesied reign. They mean to change the future. Their fate, as it were."

"How?"

"Why should I tell you, girl? What does it gain me to sell out your enemies?"

"Time."

"Explain."

"You know what's coming, Abbadon. Right now, you're chained to the bottom of a river. When 'the end' comes, you're going to be chained to the bottom of a fiery pit. Correct me if I'm wrong, but that sounds infinitely worse."

He rumbled in what she prayed was agreement.

"Well said. Fine then. One more thing- you're sole advantage, and a great threat to you in equal parts."

"What?"

"They fear you. They've outwitted you this once, but you have outwitted them since your childhood. Trickery is as much your game as theirs, as is war- and on both accounts you are superior to them. This gives you an advantage over them, as I said- but it also puts you in danger. In your shadow they will never succeed, or at least that is what they think."

"Which makes their next logical step in this mysterious plan to take me out of the picture."

"You catch on quickly. You get that from me."

"Stop it. But how? You haven't told me anything that will help me."

"I've told you all I feel like telling you and yours, for the sake of mine own amusement. Now leave me, runt."

Renard stepped forward.

"No. Absolutely not. You don't decide where this ends."

"So stubborn- that, you get from your mother. Unfortunately."

She locked her jaw.

"I had so hoped you would grow out of her influence. I find myself disappointed. Then, I have no one else to blame, I suppose. I should have killed that whore when you were still to young to remember her."

Renard turned to Michael, hand on the hilt, eyes begging.

"Or better yet- the minute I was finished with her."

"Clear." Michael snapped, deadpan.

Renard spun, jerking the trident from the loop of her belt and throwing it, javelin style, straight into her father's chest.

He grunted and fell forward, blood pinkish, diluted with the water in his veins.

Renard caught him as he fell, supporting his massive weight with one bent knee and grabbing for the weapon planted in him, twisting it, savage satisfaction overwhelming her as her groaned in pain.

"I did not come here," she snarled into his ear, "for your propaganda. Tell me more or you'll be going back to the river in pieces."

"All I can tell you," he snarled back, "is that in hardly more than one year, you will come here again. And you won't be the only one with a sword."

She threw him back off her knee, shoving him off the edge of her blade and watching as he stumbled, heavy footfalls cracking the boards of the dock.

He caught himself before he reached the end, and Renard twirled the weapon around her shoulders, catching it by the ball and twisting- then pointing the trident at him, glaring.

"Last chance," she said.

"Go to hell, daughter."

Renard shrugged at Michael, before surging forward, planting a solid, heavy kick directly over his wound and sending him flying backwards.

Back into the river.

"Well," Michael said, eyebrows raised as she slogged her way back to the shore. "That went well."

"Better than I expected," she agreed, clapping him on the shoulder.


End file.
